


Sleeper, Awake!

by OverlordoftheBees



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU - Fantasy, Angst, Castiel being the SWEETEST storyteller, Complete, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fallen Angels, Intense Romance, M/M, NC-17, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 315,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverlordoftheBees/pseuds/OverlordoftheBees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their Father cast them from Heaven, his Angels lost themselves in their grief. In 1424, they haunted the skies of citadels, as winged mercenaries turned animal, seeking bloodshed for a slight they no longer remembered. From Ardus, the central city of the kingdom, groups of soldiers took to the Roads to provide crucial supplies and transport amongst citadels. When Castiel, the last remaining Angel equipped with any sense of humanity, happened upon an attack to a Slayer's party on the Road, he rescued the only survivor -  Dean Winchester - and spared him from certain death. Under starry skies and the shadowy treetops of Ardus' forest, the pair breached the boundaries of their relative humanity and divinity, discerning first friendship and then more, until, driven by love, Castiel was imprisoned by the Empress Lilith for the crime of animalism.</p><p>When the door to the tomb is opened, Dean is returned to him. Only Dean no longer knows him, and the year is 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you are astounded by the beautiful piece of artwork done for this fic as I, please direct your praise to: http://tekakaa.tumblr.com/ Unfair as it is, not only is she insanely hella talented, but she is also a sincerely lovely person.
> 
> Even though she is basically famous now (for THIS awesome creation: https://www.facebook.com/Supernatural/photos/pb.9991232322.-2207520000.1414056772./10152824864892323/?type=3&theater) she deserves all the kudos, squees and earnest admirations. 
> 
> Tekakaa, thank you so much for this. It is the most wonderful gift I have ever received :)

** PROLOGUE **

** The Account of Castiel, he who was once an Angel of the Lord **

The first Angel, Lucifer Morningstar, fell for the sin of refusal. He was not only significant in that he was the first, but in that he was the impetus for the grander event. It was he who betrayed his brothers and sisters, and brought them to temptation and ruin.

The remaining Angels were forced to follow his treacherous path after Jesus Christ, the son of God, rose and redeemed human sin.

When the Angels witnessed the passion of the Christ, they were distressed and disillusioned by his torturous suffering – that their Father’s truest son should be forced to endure so much on humanity’s behalf, when they made his death a folly with a crown of thorns. At a loss to explain, and affected by anguish, some were drawn to Lucifer’s gospel – that which proclaimed the inferiority of the human race. Affected by his twisted and decrepit logic, they forgot themselves and began to question their Father’s love for the mortal kind. Through that gospel, their minds were muddied, and with improperly considered evangelism they spread the disease to their kin.

The dismissal of their Father’s most perfect creation, even by a few, angered him. And so by his most mighty hand all his Angels were cast out from Heaven with such force of frustration that they were hurled upon the Earth as falling, flaming stars. Not content with that punishment alone, their Father closed the Gates of Heaven to their kind too, and his first children became one and the same with humans, as earthbound creatures.

Upon their being thrown from the heavenly realm, the Angels’ true forms (being those forms that defy metaphysical dimensions) were contained within those of the humans which they had refused to admire. As such, the Angels appeared human, but were distinguished from them visibly by the presence of enormous wings, and invisibly, by the presence of Grace – a taint of the divinity from their former home.

In their angelic form, and then those human forms, the Grace was the source of the Angels’ supernatural abilities, such as teleportation, telepathy and healing. But unbeknownst to them, cut off from their Father, the Grace was finite and it depleted rapidly.

When the Angels fell, their Father did forsake them. Without the comfort of his hand on their shoulders and his word in their minds, they were all subject to absolute terror and a fitful kind of madness. There were many at a loss. They loved their Father throughout their entire being – body and soul. Many had loved his humans – they had cared for them and watched over them, so why had he dismissed them?

And so, in confusion and dismay, they split into factions, each to pursue a goal that would lead to their demise.

Some joined Lucifer’s ranks. They blamed the humans for their fall – for being so fundamentally unlovable in their hateful, vile cruelty. Those Angels consumed their Grace by laying siege to human towns upon Lucifer’s orders and in destroying those who had caused them suffering. Their anger was boundless and thousands were annihilated. But use of Grace in anger, and in wanton destruction, lead to its quick depletion. Soon, their Grace was extinguished.

Others blamed Lucifer for the fall, and those wayward Angels that had not been true disciples of their Father’s word. They avenged their Father’s sadness by tearing those instigators limb from limb while they screamed. Their brutality and viciousness extinguished the light of Grace inside them, and they too were left without it.

Others tried harder to love the humans in their Father’s name. They sought to redeem their failings by tending to human needs. They healed those who were ill or injured, they helped their crops to grow so that none would go hungry, and they brought beauty, music and art to the people. In their kindness, their Grace lasted the longest. But eventually, it too was extinguished.

When the Grace was exhuasted the Angels awoke inflicted with pure humanity. Never before had they witnessed the world through a truly humans lens, and they despised it. The world was too bright and too loud. They were too cold, or too hot. And they were hungry and thirsty _all the time_. Many had never lived among the humans, and knew not how to sate such urges. Even those who had were lost, overwhelmed by the intense physicality of their form.

Worse than that, their existence _hurt_. All at once, they felt the full pain of the human condition. The physical pain, the mental pain and the existential pain.

Never before had they been subject to such unbridled emotion, and they could not contain it. A new seed of madness planted itself in the minds made fertile by insanity, and grew there. Slowly, it strangled them from the inside until they were driven only by a desire to avenge their circumstance and their desperation to return to their Father’s glory.

And so, slowly at first, but then faster, they became animal. They lost the power of speech and remembered only their hatred for humans and the desire to see them destroyed. Their bodies changed too, and they became unrecognizable under a full down of jagged, ragged feathers and hunched four legged silhouettes. Eventually, they were nothing more than vile, groaning beasts.

They took to the skies and prowled there as winged mercenaries for the forces of chaos and destruction. They haunted human citadels and villages, and hunted their inhabitants for meat and sport. At night, they screamed a vile chorus that promised destruction and malice to all those that were unlike them – a hymn of vengeance, punishment and retribution.

The humans fought to protect their lands, and restrain the creatures. But they could not exterminate them. Even without their Grace, the Angels were superhuman in their speed and strength, made brutal by the presence of iron-strong and fanged, filthy teeth. With viciousness, they all but eradicated humanity in many places. But the decimation they wreaked was not enough to sate their bloodlust. On they continued, growing ever fiercer and crueler.

The last societies were on the brink of destruction when they were saved. A human mage discovered a way to keep the beasts at bay, with a series of sigils drawn around the perimeter of their cities. Across these, the angels could not pass without incineration.

So prohibited, the Angels retreated to the wilderness where they could quench their appetites  with the bodies of beasts there. That was not the end of their conflict with humanity; those humans that took to the roads between cities were still at risk of ambush and attack. But gradually, communities recovered. Citadels grew and trade routes were developed to form a network between cities, and humankind reestablished itself.

What emerged was a tentative kind of peace. The humans were largely secure to grow old and prosper. Only those who travelled cross-country were vulnerable to attack. Those humans that did so were hardy, and they became proficient at travelling furtively. Loss was minimal in comparison to previous centuries.

Those who did travel were volunteer knights, who escorted trade parcels of food and medicine from city to city. Such soldiers were venerated as heroes, and considered saviors of their kind – particularly when drought or famine threatened to starve a city from the inside out.

It was not harmonious, but it was at least absent the grand suffering that had beleaguered the land in years before.

…

My kind were rare, even centuries ago. We were the Angels still possessed of our Grace, who properly remembered our Father and our home.

When we fell, we refused to engage in hatred. We afforded our Father’s creation the admiration it deserved. By luck, our Grace was not extinguished before we understood its finitude. And so, we were spared.

We survived by living carefully – by eating and sleeping and drinking to avoid wanton consumption of Grace, and by cautiously avoiding accident to prevent the need for healing. But stasis did not suit us, and we worked tirelessly to protect the creatures that our Father cherished most.

We took to the roads to protect their travelers. And when humans were felled at the hands of our former brothers and sisters, we used our Grace to restore their lives and to vanquish their attackers.

But even a cautious life wielded casualties. Eventually, my brothers and sisters began to fall. Some by accident – they utilized the last vestiges of their Grace unthinkingly, having not felt the ache that marked its depletion. Others extinguished theirs deliberately by healing humans in spite of the ache. Some were injured so severely that their Grace could no longer repair them, and they died as humans died – screaming. Regardless, they all eventually re-awoke, to join the ranks of the unthinking. When they turned, we slit their throats to spare them the humiliation.

We did not know then that it was not enough to save them.

We fought until there were five of us remaining. When our final sister fell, we hid our Grace within ourselves and chose to refuse oblivion. We betrayed our brothers and sisters that had died in service of our Father’s cause, and we chose cowardice, leaving the humans to die on the roads and retreating to the wilderness as hermits.

At first, we lived together as humans. But we grew tired of one another, and our shame in our cowardice. When the pain of those absent grew to heavy, we separated and we lived alone.

I know not whether my last brothers still live.

I have lived alone now for two hundred years, in the cottage in which this account is likely to be found. There is no other aspect of my life I wish to impart, for it is of no consequence, other than this:

God is dead. He has forsaken us to darkness and misery. God is dead. I am only one who was once a harbringer of the divine. But to that, no more.


	2. Suffer The World To Burn

** CHAPTER ONE **

Castiel had been waiting. He had been waiting for a time so long that he no longer had the capacity to determine it. There was no light in the tomb, and therefore no means by which to establish the passing of days. At first, he’d marked the movement of time by the appearance of visitors. Some had brought food and drink, and cleared the bucket in which he was forced to excrete. Others arrived for the purposes of torture. He approximated that the visits occurred every two or three days, for they always occurred when his skin had just managed to seal itself over the shallowest wounds.  

There had been six visits for that purpose, maybe. They had stopped abruptly, and without explanation. So had the food. He assumed starvation was the new tactic for seeking information, for he had yet to disclose anything of use. He had said nothing, despite the flaying and near-drowning and the loss of his fingernails and teeth. And despite the perpetual, suffocating darkness.

The malnourishment had set on quickly. His stomach growled, then cramped until he was screaming silently against the cold stones upon which he lay. After a time, he was too weak even to cry, but he still shook violently and hallucinated nameless shapes and silhouettes that made him quake in terror and caused his stomach to retch up empty, foul-smelling air.

It was a feeble hope that he could die and have it over with. In the darkness, he imagined he could have died already, once or twice, and scarcely known it. He didn’t believe he had sufficient Grace left for resurrection. But in the silence, he was barely aware of himself for long periods and he doubted his brain would be able to distinguish between his empty surrounds, and actually passing out of existence momentarily.

The thought of eventual oblivion gave him comfort, but he supposed even that was out of his control now. Until Lilith desired it, at least.

He’d tried to hold on to whatever remnants of his Grace still remained to prevent it from servicing his wounds, and satiating his thirst and hunger. If he were restored to full health, Lilith could recommence her destruction of him over and over. He could not endure it. As feeble as he was now, she and Alastair could not stay with him for as long, before he passed into unconsciousness and she was forced to refrain. It was one of few victories he could hope to achieve against her.

But at some point, he’d become too weak to restrain the desperate throb of his Grace urging him to let it calm the pain. In a weak moment, when he could no longer hold it, it spread from his centre and throughout his body with an icy buzz. It closed the gaping wounds, sealed the charred and infected skin on his body, and melded together the broken bones. It grew back the feathers that had been plucked from his wings and rejoined the severed tendons. His teeth and fingernails re-emerged too, and his hollow eye sockets were filled again. Each injury was a mark of his superhuman capacity for injury. Lilith had _so_ enjoyed “getting creative” with her methods, knowing he was robust.

He didn’t know whether the Grace had gone so far as to remove the scars that Lilith had inflicted, or whether he’d stopped it in time. He’d tried to warn it against such cosmetic remedies. But he’d been too weak other than to give one feeble instruction. While he’d run his hands across his skin in an attempt to discern the extent of his remaining injuries, his fingers were too numb to register what remained. So, his mind was in darkness too.

It was remarkable that his Grace had yet to deplete, given Lilith’s inflictions. He was torn between hoping it might happen, and terror at the same. At times, he’d felt an itchiness all over his body, as though he would sprout the feathers that covered his brothers and sisters. On other occassions, he became convinced that his new teeth were loose and that they would fall out to be replaced with fangs.

But in his sane moments, he was aware that he was still sentient. How long such awareness could remain, he did not know – madness would be so easy a descent in the darkness.

Still, he predicted he could not remain conscious for long. His Grace would start to ache, and he would fall to join his brothers and sisters in frightened chaos.

Perhaps that was the purpose of his starvation. He hadn’t volunteered any useful information. Not of his brothers or sisters, his past, his relationship with Dean or the location of his cabin – the place where he hoped Dean had escaped. Even if he were forced to reveal the rest, he would hold onto that last sliver with every fiber of his being. He was a soldier and Dean was his cause. He could never betray him.

Lilith might be waiting then, to wait out the transformation and test the limits of his immortality. Perhaps she intended to test the limits of his immortality as an Angelus. Lilith had mentioned a desire, at one point, to watch him explode.

 It would be a novel attempt at killing an Angel, certainly. He doubted it would work, all the same. Even torn apart, the bodies of Angelus always reassembled eventually. Wherever his Father was, if indeed he still existed at all, the Gates of Heaven were closed, and Castiel could not descend to Hell. Castiel would have no peace in death, no matter how vicious the assault.

At least combustion would be fairly painless. He’d prefer it to other methods. In his circumstance, he had to be grateful for small mercies.

He let Dean keep him company at points, to hold back the mortification of the containment. He detailed every part of Dean to himself, so as not to forget. Every smell, touch, and taste. The different feelings of Dean’s stubbled chin and the skin behind his knees – the softest part. The curl of his eyelashes and all 32 freckles across his nose and cheeks. The lines of his palm and the length of his fingernails. The sound of his voice at every time of day – the way it rumbled early in the morning tiredness, and the way it rose by a smidgen when Castiel held his gaze. In his cold, dank surroundings, Dean’s fantastical touch was a beacon of warmth and comfort and ceased Castiel’s shivering, if only for a moment.

Other times, he hated thinking of Dean. He became overcome with fear of what had become of him, and convinced in his imaginings that Dean was in some other tomb, suffering at Lilith’s hand. Those times, he took to counting. He’d counted to a billion. At least, he thought he did. But then he calculated that it would take him nearly 32 years to do so. He knew that wasn’t right. It was a trick of his terrified mind, awaiting the next bout of violence.

And so he continued, awaiting the next punctuation to his isolation. He slept, he shivered and he despaired. And he waited.

…

Noise was enough to cause Castiel a momentary pain, for it was so long since he’d heard it. He could virtually feel his eardrums swelling with the shock and he recoiled as though beaten against the wall. The echo of the sound ricocheted in his mind and his brain raced sluggishly through his mental catalogue of noises trying to translate what it had just heard. It wasn’t until the second time he heard the sound that he properly processed its nature. It was, unmistakably, the scrape of the wall across from him across the cobbles, which formed the hidden entrance to his tomb.

It didn’t slide open smoothly, like he was used to hearing when Lilith entered. Instead, the sound came in sharp staccato bursts, as the entrance was shuffled slowly and weightily against the cold stone.

Castiel didn’t even bother to suppress his whimper at Lilith’s return. He’d grown accustomed to the absence of pain in the time since the Grace had healed his body. Now he was restored to full capacity, his body felt fear acutely and sharply in bursts of adrenalin across the surface of his skin.

There was no sing-song greeting, or trill of laughter that would have usually met his submissiveness, however. Rather, an anxious male voice, accented in a way that Castiel could not place called out through the gap in the wall.

“Who’s there?”

Castiel did not stir at its unfamiliarity. He suspected Lilith would have her reasons for bringing a stranger, and for staying silent herself. She was bored with him, and his guttural screams at her hand. Her patience was child-like. It was likely as he feared – Lilith had a new pet whose sadism surpassed even that of Alastair. And this performance was to be their introduction.

So, he did not speak or move, other than to curl a little in on himself. He blocked out the rising panic with the calmer imagining of Dean in the field beside his cabin, leaning against Impala and watching the sun set over the mountains.

“Is someone there?” The unfamiliar voice punctured the silence again with a slightly lesser urgency and anxiety. Still, Castiel did not stir, preferring to avoid aggravating his assailant and delaying to onslaught for as long as he could manage.

From the other side of the door, there were a few murmurs. Castiel only heard glimpses, atop the sound of his own thundering heart:

“It must have malfunctioned. There’s no way…”

Castiel was no fool. He would not be susceptible to the oddness of the accents he heard or the language. It was a trick of Lilith’s – a mental torture now designed to make him believe that mercy was attainable. She would wait until he was virtually certain that he was saved, likely, inflicting her most violent torture yet and throwing his pathetic hope back in his face.

The facts were simple: he had been blindfolded when he came here, but he knew that he was at the centre of a labyrinth, below the City. His cell was only accessible to those who accompanied Lilith, and otherwise hidden by sorcery. Escape was but a fantasy.

The sound of the murmurs on the other side of the wall continuing was enough to drive him to grief though – the utter cruelty of it, after so much else, could not be borne. The plea escaped his lips in a mad plea to his Father, long since abandoned: “Please. No.”

It was barely a whisper, but in the suffocating silence, the words were loud enough for even dull ears to register and understand them. A moment later, he heard the voices again.

“Shit.” The second voice was muffled from behind the wall.

The first’s however, resonated clearly through the small gap in the tomb wall: “Whoever you are, you need to get out of here now. This is a protected site.”

Castiel didn’t respond, but to suppress a small scream at the back of this throat and to press his palms against his eyes, now welling like a child’s.

 The first voice spoke again, rising a little with urgency.

“You’re only getting one chance to come out. After that, we’re calling the police.”

Castiel nuzzled his face between his legs and moved his palms to cover his ears. They didn’t help to press out the echoes of the voices in the tunnel behind the door – his ears were so long starved of human speech that they sought out the sound despite his intentions otherwise. He ignored it, but the words bled through anyway.

The second voice was muffled, and Castiel could not make out its content. The first however responded loudly, with the speed of aggravation.

“Don’t be such a jerk. It’s probably just some kids.”

While the language was unfamiliar, the irritation in the words struck Castiel. He heaved in gasping breaths, becoming suddenly certain that repercussion for his lack of compliance in previous days was only moments away. “Please Father,” he plead tearfully to the waiting darkness, “please help me.”

“What?”

There was a bated silence on the other side of the door.

The second voice was but a whisper: “Did you just-?”

It was overridden by the louder cry of the first.

“Oh fuck. We’ve got to get in there!”

The door scraped further and longer this time, as Castiel heard the scuffle of feet and the grunts of effort from beyond it. When the sound ceased, he felt a body brushing through the narrow entranceway and into the room. A second later, a bouncing circle of light blared directly in his eyes. He scrunched them shut in terror and pressed back against the wall, wings flaring in an automatic defensive stance. One pulled at a chain on the floor, and it gave a tiny scrape as it moved across the rough cobbles.

The beam of light followed the sound, and settled on the chains to Castiel’s left. When the voice spoke again, it was higher, and more insistent.

Castiel braced himself against the wall for the strike.

 “Holy shit. GREG! Go get Mike! Get him down here. Right now! RIGHT NOW!”

There was the sound of hurried footsteps from beyond the door.

When he felt the warm touch of the orb move away from him Castiel curled his wings back on himself again, and shrunk away from the light that surveyed him and bounced off his body. He whimpered again as he sensed the man’s approach and felt him drop to his knees. His voice was soft, but there was hurried panic beneath it.

 “Do you need medical attention?”

“No. No. Please, leave me”. He pulled his arms around himself beneath his wings, dragging the chains a little further along the floor with a light scrape. “Please.”

The red orb behind his eyelids disappeared momentarily and there was a sharp intake of breath.

“Who chained you here?”

“Mmm”, he whined inside the protective curve of his wings. Please, Lord, let it be over. No more trickery. No more torture. Let it end.

 “Oh God. Greg!”The man yelled again. There was a tiny response from a long way away. “Yeah?”

“Bolt cutters! Bring me bolt cutters! And water! Fucking hurry!”

Castiel still had his eyes closed, protected from the beam of light. He saw flashes of red behind his eyelid, however, as the man moved it around anxiously.

“Hey, its ok. It’s ok now. My name is Keith. We’re going to get you out of here, ok?”

Castiel stiffened at the words, and the genuine compassion that laced them. Lilith was outdoing herself.

There was a tentative touch to his wing, which he hissed and recoiled from.

“It’s ok, help is coming. Just hang on, alright?”

Castiel couldn’t answer. But he started breathing out small sobs. The voice was so genuine in its concern and pity. There was none of Lilith’s characteristic iciness in it or that thin undercurrent of brutality that ran under the childlike innocence that she liked to play at. It was too perfect an illusion – too easy to believe that salvation had really arrived. But it was impossible. When would the torment end?

“Please, calm down. It’s going to be over soon… I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Don’t lie.” Castiel recoiled from the voice even further, and hung his head deep between his knees so that it was almost completely covered by the swell of his wings.

“I’m not-…” the voice took a slow, deep breath and held it, as thought expecting something. Castiel felt the warmth of the orb ghost across his body. At the sound of a slight shift of movement in front of him, Castiel braced himself for the waiting strike - wings stiffened as though they could buffer against the force of the blows. It was a fruitless hope. However he tried to protect himself, when the beating was through, he would be left a limp rag of a creature on the floor, sticky and stinking with his own blood.

 “I’m here to help,” the voice repeated uncertainly. “We can help, I promise. Please… just… Can you tell me what happened? How long have you been here?”

When Castiel remained silent, there was a tiny, tentative touch to his wing again – more deliberate than the first. It slid slowly across the edge of his lowest feathers in small repetitive circles. Castiel hissed again, but didn’t move away, anticipating reprimand might follow. Lilith had once petted him like an animal, and when he recoiled she insisted he ought to be punished as one. At his withdrawing, the hand only faltered in its smooth movement, but continued determinedly nonetheless.

“It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok now.” The voice almost crooned, as though it were directed at an infant. And Castiel felt infantile – helpless and useless and petrified.

He _was_ like a frightened animal beneath the touch. His body was alert to make a ready move, but it was paralyzed by the enormity of the task. It was all he could do not to shiver violently. Instead, he stayed as still as possible, as though to convince the voice that he was dead. His mind knew it was a fruitless effort, for he was beginning to rack out aching sobs in earnest, that caused his stomach to constrict and ache. But his body persisted, driven entirely by instinct of preservation.

As the hand moved though his feathers, Castiel became aware of a stranger sensation still. The hand that moved across him did not leave the characteristic chill of Alastair or Lilith’s, or their instruments. It was dully warm, and the heat made the skin of his wing feel plump with it, while the rest of his skin stayed thin and dried out with the cold of the room.

It felt like… Dean. Not Dean, specifically – he’d have known that touch immediately. But… human. Alive and invigorated and moist with the pump of blood through its system. It might be another cruel trick but… Lilith and Alastair had never sent such a soul to him before. Those who assisted them felt like they did – stone cold and hard, smooth like marble and utterly lifeless. They were of the same kind. They were inhuman.

But this touch… this voice. It was warm and soft and feeling. It wasn’t burning with heat and instinct like an animal – it was tempered, rational and caring. It was human.

 His mind warned him against the small light of elation that ignited in his chest. This was what she wanted. She would delight in her success, even if it were a small one. Of course her deceit would be so utterly perfect; the move so utterly unpredictable, that he would foolishly expect deliverance. She’d tailored the spectacle for him, for his love of humans. She would be so imaginative as to send a kind soul, and leave it entirely unaware of its purpose. Perhaps this man came here thinking he could provide Castiel with mercy. Lilith would slit his throat just to see Castiel scream.

His empty stomach retched and twisted, and he gargled out a kind of howl.

“Please… leave me”.

“It’s ok. We’re going to help you.”

Castiel shuddered properly now underneath the hand, and it withdrew abruptly.

“Send her in. Please, stop with this.”

“What?”

Castiel buried his face in the crooks of his elbows and rocked back and forth slowly.

“Have it done with.”

“Send who in?”

He swallowed, feeling his esophagus practically sticking to itself with dryness in fear and anticipation.

“Your Empress. Please, have mercy and let her have me.”

“I don’t…”

The hand abruptly seized his jaw and pulled it up to face directly into the orb of light.

“Have you taken any drugs?”

Castiel scrunched his eyes closed tighter and flinched away from the light.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

The hand released him quickly.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, I promise I’m here to help... But we need to know what you’ve taken. Please, answer me.”

Terrified of the return of the touch, more brutal this time, he expected, he responded, small and ragged:

“I’ve taken nothing.”

“If you’ve been given anything we need to know. Let us help you, ok? Do you remember anyone injecting you with anything? Or making you drink something?”

The man leaned forward and grasped for Castiel, shining the orb in his face again. Castiel heaved in a surprised gasp at the shock, wheezing with the effort of the inhale and the man let him go quickly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please answer me.”

As Castiel breathed in harried breaths, groaning around them as though he had just emerged from beneath the water’s surface after an attempted drowning, he felt the presence of a nervous hand just minutely avoiding touching his wing again. At the closeness of it, he heaved another desperate breath, wheezing around it urgently as though it were his last.

“Please, please try to breathe. I’m sorry.”

Castiel swallowed down a gasp and forced himself to recover his nerve, exhaling so that all the breath left his lungs at once, and starting afresh with the cleaner stuff, less polluted by his fear.

“They gave me some bread and water, at first. But they haven’t returned in a long time. They left me here to die.”

“Who are they? Do you know who did this to you?”

Castiel swallowed carefully, and from between dry lips and tongue squeezed out the words:

“The Empress, Lilith.”

The voice breathed out in a low whistle and shifted away from him. “Oh fuck.”

“Keith, what’s goin on?” Another voice sounded out from behind the door, still less direct in its address through the wall.

“Mike, get in here! Where the hell is Greg?”

The body in front of Castiel shifted in the darkness and the orb to look behind its wielder, where another body squeezed through the gap between the door and the wall. He grunted as he moved through, having to maneuver himself rather vigorously in places, and when he spoke his voice was tight with the exertion and his contained surroundings: “He’s gettin’ the bolt cutters. Sent me down here with nothin’ but a hurry the fuck up. What the hell is goin’ on?”

The orb of light is shone at Castiel’s face once again.

“Who the hell is the idjit?” Castiel heard the second man stumble across the room, and trip. There was a scuffle as he seemed to collide with the other body. The older man muttered with aggravation, and rustled slightly, and Castiel recoiled from the sound of his approach. Moments later, another orb blared to life and Castiel once again curled in on himself, pulling his wings around him and scrunching his eyes against the blaring light.

The first voice was murmuring again, low and urgent.

“I don’t know. He’s caught up in some kind of chains. He’s hallucinating, or tripped up on something. He thinks there’s some torturers out to get him.”

“Well how the hell did he get in here? Even we didn’t know about this room until Greg started with that goddamn space stick…”

The first voice paused for a moment, and when it resumed with speech it was soft with wonder and a hint of strained terror, as though the aspect of the vocal chords that controlled volume were paralyzed with fear.

“I don’t know, Mike He’s totally out of it.”

“Well, fuck me.”

There was a silence as the lights surveyed him again.

“You got him to talk?”

“Not really, he just keeps freaking out – thinks I’m here to hurt him.”

The body belonging to the second man shuffled again on the ground, and the orb bounced away from Castiel’s face back towards the wall, where it illuminated the entrance of the room. The entrance, Castiel suddenly noted with clarity, was set to a state of decay he had never before witnessed. While he had believed the stone of the room had been dark and black and wet, it looked dry now, and caked with the ages. In parts, the rock seemed to have almost been eaten away at, where the smooth surface dipped inwards to reveal a ragged and rough looking internal content.

“Goddamnit, that idjit needs to get a move on.”

“Who on earth would chain someone down here?”

The second voice huffed out  a low whistle.

“Some sick bastard… how the hell’d they get in though?”

“That door was so stiff! It can’t have been moved that recently…”

Castiel could do nothing but sit in wait, anticipating the first surprise strike. But there was slow trickle of curiosity filtering though his muscles, lessening a little of the tension in them. The charade had gone on long enough. And still Lilith had not appeared. Why was she waiting? She knew him well enough to know he would not so readily give in. The deceit had run its course. And he did not relent. She ought to have appeared in a fury, outraged that he had frustrated her little game.

But nothing. Against his will, the first tendril of hope wound its way around his veins and squeezed with anticipation.

 “Mike! I’ve got the cutters.” Another voice resonated through the chamber. It was much lower, with a tint of gravel in it, and another strange accent and words that Castiel could not comprehend. It was entirely unfamiliar. But then it was familiar. Despite its wrongness, Castiel heard it and knew.

He’d know it anywhere.

“Dean!” His eyes flew open at once, and widened despite the burn of the orbs on his face with sudden ferocity. He threw back his wings as through throwing off a cloak and reached forward blindly into the darkness, past the bright circles. His hands knocked the orbs out of the way, and as one fell it illuminated part of the body the voice was attached to. He didn’t properly register its strange garment though, but only searched more frantically in the darkness – arms outstretched and manacles clanking against one another. “DEAN!”

“What the…?!”

The orb was roughly snatched up and directed back at Castiel. He squinted through it, aware of the slight coolness of his Grace as it raced to his eyeballs, and shielded them against the light they were no longer equipped to adjust to.

The second voice was hurried, and increased significantly in volume: “Greg, get the hell in here! You got the cutters?”

“Yeah.”  There was more shuffling at the entrance and a frustrated grunt, before Dean was stumbling towards him. The orbs moved to illuminate the hands which passed between them a number of objects that Castiel did not recognize. Dean’s hands, Castiel recognized at once. The hands that had been on his body. The hands that had seized him from oblivion.

A moment later a bottle was thrust in his face, which made a few short snapping noises under the tense grip of its holder. It was pressed against his lips, and out of shock or habit, he opened it for the bottle’s contents - water. He took a few quick gulps before ripping his mouth away from it and reaching forward blindly again, grasping for Dean.

“Where’s Lilith? We have to hurry.” The hand attempted to push the bottle back to his mouth, but he whacked at it in frustration. It fell to the ground without shattering (the remarkableness of which Castiel did not have time to contemplate) and Castiel felt the liquid pool against his naked leg as it spread across the tomb’s floor.

“Jeez, Keith, what the fuck?”

Castiel grabbed in the direction of the voice, and found himself pulling at leather. His scrabbled frantically, trying to find Dean’s face or arms, but Dean shuffled backwards and out of his reach and Castiel’s hands lost their grip.

“Son of a bitch!”

“He’s hallucinating or something. Just try to keep him calm. I’ve got to cut these chains.”

There was a disbelieving snort somewhere in the darkness

 “Like hell. He’s crazy.”

At the loss of the contact, Castiel’s throat swelled with panic and constricted around his airway . Fear, love, he didn’t know what he felt more fervently But it was extreme, and pressing. “Dean! Where are you?”

He fought against the chains, reaching forward and straining against them, for they were fully extended now from the wall. His hands grappled blindly, fingers shaking, out into the darkness for the familiar touch so long denied.

“Greg! I need you to keep him still! He’s freaking out.”

“He’s nuts!”

Dean’s voice was higher now, and strangely panicked. His words were unfamiliar, but in truth Castiel barely registered them, eager to realize Dean’s presence with all his senses – smell, touch, taste.

“He thinks you’re his rescuer or something. For God’s sake, just give him what he wants for a few minutes.”

“Goddamit Greg, do what he says.” The second man’s voice was authoritative, and seemed to change the direction of the conversation.

“Hold him down if you have to, just get on with it.”

The orbs of light turned to illuminate the manacle on his right hand. A moment later Castiel gasped as he felt the touch of a hand against his upper arm. He grabbed at the arm attached to it and folded himself into it, burying his face against the shoulder.

“Oh God, Dean.” He murmured it so softly against Dean’s shoulder that he doubted he’d even said it at all. Dean stiffened against him and the hand that had been on his arm, pulled away slightly, so that the touch was feather light and barely there. Still, underneath it, Castiel felt the familiar skim of energy across his skin and the tingle that felt like it was rejoicing – yes, it was Dean.

“Jesus, Keith this isn’t what I signed up for.”

“Hold on.”

Castiel stuttered against Dean’s shoulder, torn between suffocating himself with the reunion, and sneaking in quick sharp breaths. His whole body was seizing up with the relief of it – that Dean was here, and unharmed, and that they were together.

He’d been so cold in the tomb for so long, and the slight warmth of Dean’s skin beneath his clothing was enough to feel like a burn against Castiel’s own bare skin. Still, he sought it out anyway, moving his face higher up Dean’s chest, seeking out the exposed flesh at his neck and burying his face into it. Dean twitched a little at the contact, but didn’t recoil. Slowly, his arm worked around Castiel until Dean’s palm was flat against Castiel’s upper arm, pressed lightly against the skin.  Dean removed it almost immediately, startled.

“Fuck, he’s freezing, we have to get him out of here.”

Immediately, the grip around Castiel’s shoulder tightened and Dean pulled him into his chest in earnest. Castiel flattened his wings against his back, to allow Dean’s arm to properly encircle him, and kept his face buried in Dean’s neck, letting the smell of the leather Dean wore slowly ease him out of his panic.

“I’m on it, Greg. Hey, hey man. What’s your name?”

Castiel didn’t bother to answer, until Dean shook his shoulder lightly. Castiel withdrew his face from Dean’s neck for a moment only, to murmur out.

“Cas. I’m Cas.”

Dean rewarded him with vigorous rubs to the skin of his arm; the heat which the friction created was almost painful on Castiel’s frozen skin. Despite the discomfort, Castiel sighed in relief against Dean’s neck and, which only served to make Dean rub harder.

“Ok ok, Cas, I need you to hold out one of your arms. I’m going to take the chains off.” The first voice was a little calmer, and gentle. It was a request, not an order – Castiel barely remembered the last time that hadn’t been the case. He sighed out softly against Dean’s neck and obliged, still keeping his face tightly pressed against Dean’s shoulder. There was a clunk that was followed by a kind of crunch, and he felt the immediate loss of the weight from his wrist. 

“That thing practically fell apart. It’s freaking ancient! How the hell did it hold him down here?” Dean’s chest vibrated as he spoke, and Castiel felt Dean move against him as he reached with his free hand and to grasp at the manacle.

“Not really an important question right now, Greg. Other hand, Cas.”

Castiel slid his other hand in between his bare chest and Dean’s, only moving away from him minutely. When that weight was relieved too, he promptly wrapped his arms around Dean - one around his neck, and the other up the back of his spine so that his hand was wound in Dean’s hair.

Dean took a deep breath, the exhale of which Castiel felt tickle against his ear. Castiel gave a light sob against Dean’s neck. The cry was breathed out against skin and Castiel felt the strange iciness of his own breath spread across his face as it bounced back at him. At the touch, the minute hairs that clung to Dean’s skin and unfurled and reached upwards, as though they were seeking out the taste.

He felt Dean twitch beneath the contact, but he didn’t relinquish his hold. Dean cleared his throat and then spoke, his voice now deeper again, and less anxious.

“We good, Keith? Let’s get him out of here.”

“Yeah, we’re good. Here Mike, grab the torch.”

Dean made to move away from Castiel, but Castiel merely held tighter.

 “Ok ok. Hold on, Cas. I got you. Mike, light please?”

Castiel felt the touch of the light on his skin again, but the sensation was duller now in his proximity to the burn of Dean’s body. Dean grunted a little as he adjusted himself awkwardly around Castiel’s unmoving frame and he positioned himself to slide his free arm under Castiel’s knees. A moment later, Dean was staggering upwards, and Castiel felt them brush a little against the body of one of Dean’s companions as he momentarily lost his balance. There was a brief touch of hands to his outer shoulder as one of the men steadied them, and then the touch was withdrawn.

 “Ok Cas, getting you out of here now.” Dean murmured low and into Castiel’s ear. The urgency of his tone was gone and it was now soft and careful, as though Castiel were but an infant child.

The two men struggled with the door for some time to open it wide enough to allow both Castiel and Dean to pass through. Dean held him the entire time, and a few times Castiel felt the press of his cheek against the top of his head. “You ok, Cas?”

Castiel merely let the tip of his nose run up Dean’s neck in reply. Dean cleared his throat again and jostled Castiel, jostling him minutely to adjust his grip.

“Hurry up, would you?” His voice was aggravated and growing in urgency again as they stood before the door.

“Doin’ our best boy.”

Eventually the door gave way with a loud scrape, and Dean stumbled through first, his heart thudding at his chest and against Castiel’s side.

Castiel didn’t properly remember exiting the tomb, or winding through the tunnels that lead to the surface. The duration of their journey didn’t strike him as odd, and he barely flinched at the touch of light on his skin, his Grace once again flaring to protect it (for had been so long unexposed) before he could stop it. But he could barely think of it, or notice the ache, if there was one. All he was aware of was Dean. _Dean._

…

“Put him here. Where’s Jess?”

“She was callin’ emergency.”

Dean lowered Castiel carefully against a stone wall. Unlike the stones of the tomb, they were warmed by the rays of sun. Castiel barely felt them though through the satisfaction that bubbled in his chest from Dean’s proximity. As Dean jostled, Castiel loosened his grip on Dean’s neck momentarily, to let himself be set down.

As Dean lay him against the bricks, and carefully pulled backwards, they came face to face. Dean let his hands quickly run across Castiel’s muscles, checking he had the strength to support himself against the wall on his own.

Castiel breathed heavily for a few seconds, drinking in the sight of Dean before him. The man he thought he’d never see again and the man he loved more than anything. Here, before him again, when Castiel had believed he’d been taken from him forever.

“Dean.” He breathed it. Over and over, rejoicing at the name on his tongue and the feel of those eyes on his face again. His heart beat in his chest like it had lain dormant for all this time, and with every pump it spread more of the insatiable need to reclaim Dean, to demonstrate his presence was not that of a dream, and to nourish every promise that had been made so long ago.

There was a long pause. They both stared at each other, in disbelief and incredulity. And then Castiel pushed himself up with all his strength and forward against Dean, grabbing at Dean’s face with both hands and bringing their foreheads together. The tip of his nose just brushed Dean’s own and his lips parted and -

 “Shit, no!”

Dean’s hands were against his chest, and Castiel was pushed away violently. Dean stood up and backed away quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on Castiel’s as he recovered forwards, moving his neck carefully to ascertain the extent of the damage that being thrown back against the rock wall had caused. It barely twinged, and he looked up quickly towards Dean. The moment lay suspended in time, and confusion, as Castiel stared at the face of his lover.

 “Dean. It’s me. It’s Cas.”

Horror transformed Dean’s face like a brutish artist, with hard, thick and uncompromising strokes. He raised his hands in front of him defensively, crouching as though in a show of deference.

“Keith, can you deal with this?”

Castiel looked to the right of Dean, where an incredibly tall and muscular man stood. He knew him too, although only by Dean’s words. Beside Dean though, his identity was certain.

“Sam!”

“What?” Sam squinted at Castiel, as though it might assist him in recognition, and titled his head. Then, his palms twitched too, and he raised them to mimic Dean’s as Castiel started for him.

Dean looked desperately at Sam, his hands apart in a gesture of confusion and urgency. “He’s jumped up on something nasty! We need to lock him down.”

Sam’s voice was hurried and urgent again and he looked at Dean quickly, before turning to keep his gaze carefully on Castiel. “He’s sick. We can’t freak him out like that.”

“Dean.” Castiel reached for him weakly again. Dean startled back, even though he was meters from Castiel.

“He wants you, Greg. He’s not going to hurt you. Can you just try and calm him down for a few minutes?” Sam glanced back at Dean anxiously, a plea written across his face, as he shuffled nervously on his feet, as though braced to run.

“Like hell! You saw what he just tried to do!” Dean’s mouth curled up in incredulity, and when he saw Castiel was watching him again he gestured angrily at him, as if to make his point.

“He’s confused! Someone’s left him there to die!” Sam turned to Castiel for a moment, and his face dropped as he let his eyes rush across Castiel’s body – the part of him, at least, that was uncovered by the wings he had weakly draped around himself.

“I’m not fucking touching him, Keith!”

“For God’s sake, Greg!” There was a new voice – a female one – that Castiel didn’t know. From behind Sam emerged a tall blond girl, with messy curly hair and a furious expression. “He needs help. He’s terrified!”

“He’s hallucinating!” Dean looked away from Castiel’s persistent and pleading gaze, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Someone has to help him while we wait for the ambulance.” The girl gestured at Castiel angrily, and when Dean ignored her, she growled and shook her head aggressively. “If you don’t, I will.” On the final word, she made to start forward towards Castiel but Sam pulled her back.

“That’s not happening. You can’t go near him, he could be dangerous.”

A terrified kind of horror crossed Dean’s face: “Oh, so now we care that he’s psycho?”

The girl ignored the aggressive jibe, fixating on Castiel with obvious pity: “You two are the danger to him right now, leaving him to shiver there like that. At least get him a blanket or something. All he’s got are those rags – look!”

She pointed as Castiel drew his wings around himself with his hands, keeping his gaze firmly on the back of Dean’s neck.

Was this a dream? A cruel trick of his mind? He’d thought about Dean so often in captivity, and tried to find solace in their time together. He thought of him so often that dream Dean came alive in his mind, and when he held Castiel close he could actually smell the salt of sweat on his skin, and the hint of the leather he spent his days wearing. But in those dreams, he talked to Castiel with love and affection. He touched him tenderly, whether it was an embrace as they fell asleep, or hot and urgent kisses along Castiel’s jaw and down onto his shoulder.

But the Dean that was before him was a mimicry. He looked the same and he spoke with the same low rumble that Castiel had replayed over and over in his head. But instead of endearments, his words were cruel and sharp. Where there had been familiarity there was strangeness and emptiness. And where there was love there was now hate and fear.

“I need to wake up.” The resolution was obvious, and escape a necessity. Under the cover of his wings, Castiel grabbed his thigh and pinched the skin as hard as he could. He let his fingers angle so that the nails pierced the skin and the warm scent of blood filled the air. The pain was nothing to what he’d suffered previously, but if felt as real as it did in his waking hours. He gave a whimper of fear as the world around him failed to disassemble and rematerialize in his cell. He needed this dream to be over.

“What?” Sam’s eyes flickered back to him, and Castiel widened his own, pleading with him as though he were in charge of this spectacle and was equipped with the mercy to end it.

“He’s trying to talk, Greg. For God’s sake help him!” The blonde girl bustled quickly behind Sam and pushed Dean forwards towards Castiel. It seemed for a moment that he might rebuff her, but a cautionary glance from Sam, he let her, but glared in anger and swore under his breath: “this is fucking insane.”

As he inched towards Castiel he held his hands out in a gesture of surrender: “It’s ok. I won’t hurt you.”

Castiel made no move to unwrap himself from his wings, and shut his eyes as Dean came closer and tried to block out the sounds and smells around him, and will himself back into consciousness.

He felt as Dean’s weight settled near, but not beside him, and a hand reached out to press tentatively at the wing wrapped around his shoulder.

“It’s ok, Cas. It’ll be ok soon. Just a few more minutes.”

“Please don’t torment me. No more.” Castiel shrunk away from the touch and pulled his wings tighter about himself.

“It’s ok, Cas. The people that are coming. They can help you.”

Castiel burrowed his head into his wings and didn’t answer, except for a muffled sob of desperation that the taunting be over. Dean’s hand reached for his wing again, and ran along it a little way, soft at first but then more curious and pressing.

“What the-?” As it grasped more firmly at the ulna bone, Castiel forgot himself. With the instinct of preservation, he let his wing swell out to force the hand away from him.

At the movement of his left wing, the right responded too, mimicking the gesture and extending outwards. As they stretched to their full span, Dean fell backwards and scrabbled away from him, his eyes widening with horror as they surveyed the wing from base to tip.

“Jesus Christ!”

There was a collection of startled gasps. Castiel ignored them and reached for the skin that he had punctured and tore at it, trying to create enough pain to wake himself up. There was still nothing. A moment later, as he tore a thick piece of skin back from his thigh as though peeling a vegetable, he felt a flare of Grace rise in his chest. Before he could stop it, he witnessed the wound close and seal itself at a speed that if he’d blinked he would have missed it. _How?_

“Did he just…?”

Sam’s voice was a bare whisper as he staggered a little, and the girl grabbed at his elbow to steady him.

“Those are…” she swallowed down the shake rising in her voice before continuing. “Shit…Those are wings.”

Castiel stroked at his thigh in shock for a moment before he looked up. There was nothing. No ache in his Grace at the spontaneous act of healing. Not even a slight feeling of weakness. It should have dragged at his very soul to carry out such a remedy. That was what it had felt like in the cell, as the last remnants of Grace strove to remedy Lilith’s atrocities. He had to be in a dream, for his Grace to act so readily and so efficiently, as it had when he had been connected to heaven. Quickly, desperate for escape, he placed two fingers to his own temple and sent a shock of Grace strong enough through his own body to shock him into waking.

But the world stayed where it was. The Grace followed his bloodstream through his body, and spreading a whiteness so cool it was hot right through to his fingertips and leaving him humming with the aftershock. As it moved, he felt the ache in his wings disappear, and the terror in his stomach dissipate. He felt it as his whole body – his whole _being_ – momentarily, but indubitably, miraculously _healed._

This was…this was real, he realized at once, and with enlivened clarity in his purified brain. This wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He couldn’t have created it. He was hearing accents he’d never heard. Seeing clothes he’d never seen. Hearing strange names and strange language and seeing a strange world. And he was recovered –his Grace was restored, and without burden. He couldn’t deny that as it singed through his skin and burrowed into his bones, invigorating every part of his being with _life_ and _consciousness._

He raised his eyes to Dean, who had scrabbled to his feet and backed away slowly, hands raised in a defensive gesture and eyes pleading.

 “Please. We’re not gonna hurt you. Please just… leave us be.”

“Keith. He looks like a…” The girl was whispering in Sam’s ear, but Castiel’s rejuvenated ears picked up the sound instantly. She didn’t finish her sentence when Castiel’s gaze fell upon her.

“When am I?”

Both she and Sam froze under his appraisal, except for the light tremble at their extremities, most noticeable when Sam placed a hand in front of her and carefully moved her behind him. The girl kept her eyes on Castiel, and when Sam seemed lost for words and movement, she answered, her voice was trembling slightly.

“Stromwich Castle. In Warwick.”

“No, no.” He moved forward slightly, watching them carefully. Both inhaled, as he moved, and held it, suspending their expectation of the worst: “ _when_ am I? How many years has it been since the death of Christ?”

“What the hell?” Dean narrowed his eyes at Castiel, but he withdrew backwards when Castiel turned to look at him once more, as though it where he now, not Castiel that feared reprimand.

 “Answer me… please.”

Dean’s eyebrows raised and he swallowed slightly before stuttering through his answer: “It’s 2013.”

 


	3. And Let the Ash Fill Your Eyes

** CHAPTER TWO **

2013\. 2013. Six hundred years, or thereabouts. Six hundred years in the tomb, in a constant state of fear and panic and existential desperation.

More importantly, six hundred years in which his Grace had preserved itself and his body. And six hundred years in which it subsisted without the ache of overuse. He was still sentient, and unchanged from his human form.

But that was impossible, he knew. He’d been on the brink the last time he’d seen Dean. He’d felt the ache, and he knew Dean had felt his Grace duller in him. His brothers and sisters had barely lasted weeks once the weakness set in – even sparing their Grace, it had been consumed by small, unconscious incidents and, one by one, they had fallen.

Six hundred years, without food and water. Dehydration should have killed him in days. Starvation too. The wounds that had been inflicted upon him had been enough, regardless – his Grace shouldn’t have been strong enough to resurrect a body literally torn to pieces. And yet he was here. And, within him, the Grace was unfettered. And vibrant still. Now alert to its presence, he felt it buzz through him, accompanied by an uncontained and unbridled sensation that he had no longer been able to recollect. It was a searing, bright, purifying coolness that cut through every cell in his body blurring the line between pain and magnificence. He might have thought it a trick of his shattered and fragmented mind, after the chaos that had been inflicted upon it. But there was no mistaking it, for no other sensation could even minutely resemble it – even human imagination. For it was the only thing entirely pure – the touch of the divine.

Certainly, it was unmoving and unresponsive, like a muscle deteriorated from disuse. But though he could not yet manipulate it consciously, he knew what it was, as sure as he knew himself.

His Father’s hand was upon his shoulder once again.

...

It was in his contemplation of his renewed divine nature that Castiel found himself distracted from the events that transpired at the mouth of his tomb. He had only fleeting and distorted remembering of how he left that place and came to be located in the room in which found himself seated in, some hours later.

At some point, someone had made a decision, and the group had overcome its trepidation and bundled him into a wagon. The wagon was drawn not by animals, but a remarkable kind of force that seemed to be centered at its front which rumbled with a vicious, but controlled purr.

He knew Dean had refused to sit near him, and had instead taken his own wagon, with the woman beside him. His escorts, Sam and Bobby, may have addressed him, but he did not remember the contents of their statements.

 He did remember witnessing a strange new world that awaited him outside of the darkness of his tomb, but he did not properly commit its contents to his memory. He remembered being lead by a comforting hand to the seat upon which he had been placed, but he could not remember who owned such a touch, nor the reason he had been left to wait. He recollected only vaguely that the hand was not Dean’s.

His mind was overcome with contemplation still, even after what felt like hours here. It was impossible, what he had witnessed. Dean was dead. Dead for hundreds of years, and now at home with his Father in eternal bliss (for Castiel had no doubt that his character would not be found wanting). Sam was dead too, and Bobby. They too would now locate with his Father, in their eternal accommodation. There was no defying that eternity - Castiel was sure of it. The only path out of Heaven was compulsory expulsion. But that would be expulsion to the Pit, and to eternal torment.

But yet, Dean was before him. He knew that, as certainly as he knew his own name. He was changed, surely, in mental and physical aspect, but he was _Dean_. Castiel couldn’t say how he knew so, other than that he felt it in the air between them and in the skin on his palms and in the sound of his own breathing. Everything about him screamed that he was Castiel’s, despite the logical and metaphysical impossibility, and Dean’s lack of recognition thereof.

Castiel’s Grace sensed it with the kind of conscious intuition with which he could once identify his siblings by the mere sound of their wings beating against the air. Even currently unable to discern Dean’s true face –  for his Grace was inflexible, stiff and utterly weak to his orders – he knew.

Only Dean didn’t remember. He called himself by another name and protested his ignorance if their acquaintance. He looked at Castiel with fear and distaste, and recoiled from him.

And that should have been enough for logic to outweigh the intuitive connection. Castiel should not be able to entertain such thoughts as he did now. But for the outstanding, illogical, serendipitous coincidence that this man had been at the mouth of Castiel’s tomb. With his brother and his mentor, or their likeness, too. But, knowing what he did of heaven’s boundaries and of the universe’s mysteries, there was but one explanation that defied absurdity, and it was not coincidence. It was that Dean had defied Death, and had returned to him. Somewhere, within this stranger, was the man Castiel had pledged his life to.

And for that reason, Castiel endured the strangeness, and the foreignness of being lead away from Dean with Sam and Bobby – both of whom he had barely known in their last life together. Despite the remarkable fact that his Grace was restored, entailing that the doors of heaven must be open, Castiel was only occupied with one thought:

To witness him again. To speak with him again. And to determine how his soul would be best recovered from the abyss within the man that it was restricted to and returned to him.

And so he waited where he was directed to wait – on a seat that was unlike any he had encountered before, that sunk under his weight and made light groans when he moved upon it. Bobby and Sam sat nervously by a door, watching him, and appeared to imagine they would restrict his exit (for they followed his every movement with furtive glances). Castiel did not bother to explain that, even depowered as he was, their efforts would be fruitless – he could pop them apart as easily as if they were an air bubble atop the surface of the river.

Instead, he occupied himself with the unfamiliarity of the world he now inhabited, properly taking in its foreign nature. Every aspect was unfamiliar, aside from the basic structure of the room (but even that was modified to more readily admit the sun’s rays into the area). The floor was soft, and it felt spongy to walk upon. The walls were adorned with an odd kind of pattern that looked as though it were meant to mimic the cracked texture of the water’s surface as winter’s icy grip began to alter its density. The furniture was puffy, rather than carved, and it sunk under his weight where he had deposited himself upon it.

The smells were bizarre too – instead of wood and smoke and harvest, there were sharp tangy aspects to the air that Castiel had no grounds for comparison with in his own mental catalogue of his Father’s creation. It was louder too – there were high pitched rings in the air that seemed to emit largely from the area Castiel assumed was the kitchen (for he saw some fruit laid across one of the surfaces, and bizarre but recognizable eating utensils piled beside it). The same came from a large black box that sat centered in the room, which was dully reflective such that Castiel could just make out his silhouette on its front.

Sam and Bobby were agitated and kept standing and checking the window. At one point Sam pulled a small device from his clothing and pressed at it so that it clicked. When he held it to his ear, he spoke into it, as though to make a normal conversation with Bobby. But Bobby was not the intended receiver of his speech, and he listened only as a witness.

“What the hell is taking so long, Greg?”

The voice on the other end was muffled, and crackled and popped oddly. Nonetheless, even from the other side of the room Castiel could discern it.

“Jess happened. She’s come over all crazy. She made me stop off at this library. She’s been in there for an hour now.”

“Have you thought about getting her to get moving?” Sam’s voice was exasperated and frustrated, in a way that Castiel did not remember witnessing previously, in their brief acquaintance. It was a frustration that belied no deeper and more abiding affection towards Dean.

“Like hell. I’d like to see you try. What’s happening back there?”

Sam threw a cautious glance at Castiel, who gazed mildly back and quirked his head at the odd play of light across Sam’s cheek that emitted from the item he held to his ear. It, too, was entirely unfamiliar. In a way, it was almost a pale imitation of the light of his Grace – in the sense that a blade of grass could be compared to the Amazonian jungle.

When Sam replied, it was with a careful murmur, but his guilty glance at Castiel showed he was aware it was understood: “He’s done nothing. He’s just sitting there.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Has he talked?”

“No... he was kinda spaced out. We tried, but he’s just ... staring.”

“That’s... good, I guess. Hold tight. Jess is sure she’s onto something.”

“Yup, good. Just hurry up.”

“Yeah, I’m _trying_.” There was a click and then the buzz and chatter that had emitted from the device ceased.

Sam flipped the item so that it closed in on itself and threw an exasperated and stressed glance at Bobby. As he made to put the item back in his pocket, Castiel spoke, barely a whisper, but with enough gravel behind it that he could be sure he was heard from the other side of the room.

“May I see that?”

Sam started and froze in place. He looked at Bobby, who shrugged. But when Sam held the phone out to him, he recoiled.

“He asked you, boy.”

Sam swallowed and rose off his seat slowly and cautiously. When it became apparent he didn’t have the nerve to approach Castiel, Castiel extended his hand for the thing. The movement caused Sam to stop in his tracks momentarily, but with a careful breath he exhaled and crossed the room at a consciously normal pace and dropped the thing in Castiel’s outstretched hand.

Castiel didn’t understand what Sam said next, but, by Bobby’s reaction, it appeared to be a statement that should have been made before he passed the item, delivered late out of nerves: “Sure, here you go.”

Castiel held the thing close to his face, listening for the same ring that emanated from the black box. This was different, but discernible. It read in waves, that rolled in upon themselves, expressing a pattern he did not immediately understand.

Slowly, he ran his fingers along its edge for the gap between the parts that could separate from each other. When he found it, he maneuvered the thing so he felt the point of least resistance, and flipped it open, as he had seen Sam do.

When it opened, he was subject to the full impact of its illumination. It was unlike the light of the sun, or fire. In a way, it was more like starlight, for it shivered a little under his gaze and passed in and out of full exposure.

“This thing empowers you to communicate with others?”

Sam watched Castiel’s fingers run over the numbered circles that occupied the surface of one of the parts. They dropped beneath Castiel’s fingers when he exerted pressure, and appeared on the surface of the other part, which emitted the light. After a few deliberate presses, Castiel realized that the numbers that appeared did so upon his instruction, when he deliberately made the circles click shallowly into the surface of the thing.

“Yeah... uh. It’s a phone.”

“How does it work?”

Sam’s brow furrowed and he looked to Bobby. “Uh... it’s a sophisticated kind of radio. If someone else has one, I can dial their number and... we can talk.”

“What is a _radio_?”

Castiel carefully pronounced the word, to show he had attempted to understand it.

“It’s... electromagnetic radiation. It travels in waves. If you have the right transmitter and receiver you can use it to... communicate.”

He faltered as Castiel held the phone to his ear again. “You employ these waves purely for communication?”

Sam stuttered.

“Are they also employed for that thing?”

He pointed at the black box at the end of the room.

Both Sam and Bobby’s eyes widened at that. Sam opened and closed his mouth to provide an answer, but didn’t manage it. Bobby supplies one instead when an uncomfortable silence fell.

“Yes... how did you-“

“How do you utilize the waves to communicate deliberately?”

Sam recovered from his gormless moment to supply the answer, although he spoke uncertainly, as though he could not quite believe what he was saying: “if you.. .use a resonator... you can project across certain waves at that frequency. If another person accesses them... they can hear.”

Castiel nodded and extended his hand, holding out the phone to Sam.

When Sam took it, seemingly careful to avoid making contact with Castiel’s skin, Castiel pointed at the box at the end of the room.

“Is that also used for communication?”

Sam pointed at the thing and Castiel nodded in affirmation that it was the entity that he was curious about.

“In a sense...” Sam crossed the room and placed his hand upon a silver square that sat upon its front-facing surface. “It’s called a television. It’s more one-sided.”

He pressed the square of the television as Castiel had pressed the circles on the phone. At once, it roared to life and its surface was illuminated with a similar artificial kind of light that had lit the phone. Unlike the phone, however, its surface projected a moving image, which was accompanied by the sound of a human voice.

“...lined the streets to commemorate the-“

Sam hit another square on the television and the voice immediately disappeared while the images continued. “You can’t use this to talk to other people, like with phones, but you can watch things. At any time of day or night.”

“What things would you desire to watch?”

“Uh... news, like this – things that have happened throughout the day. Or... stories, about people or places... for fun.”

Castiel tried to process the meaning through the unfamiliar words – in essence, he understood its purpose, although its operation remained remarkable.

He nodded and reclined in the seat. As he moved in it, it made an odd noise, almost of reluctance. He blinked at the oddness of the sound and let his gaze drop to his hands after he witnessed Sam and Bobby staring openly at him.

After some time, he heard Sam press the silver square again, and the images on the television flickered off. Sam and Bobby murmured between themselves, and Castiel didn’t bother to make out the content of their discussion. If he had, their unfamiliar language was still an impediment to any significant understanding.

Even removed from the tomb, his conception of time was flawed. He might have sat for minutes, or hours, before there was a knock at the door and Sam shot up and raced towards it.

“Keith?” The voice of the blonde woman was discernible through it. Sam hurriedly removed the chain that appeared to keep the door secure against intrusion, and fumbled somewhat until it swung open and Castiel was greeted with the sight of Dean.

He stood behind the woman - it appeared extremely reluctantly - for he glowered when she immediately attempted to push through the doorway. At first, Sam attempted to block her path. But, despite her height, which was not far off Sam’s, she nimbly ducked under his arm and made her way to Bobby, clutching at a stack of white squares against her chest.

Sam and Dean conversed in quick, hurried voices in the doorway. Sam appeared to attempt to pull Dean inside, but Dean resisted and pulled is arm away from Sam’s grip. Castiel made to focus his attention to the conversation, but they stopped almost immediately upon noticing his eyes upon them.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, and tilted his head towards Castiel.

“Seriously, Greg. Fucking come on.”

Under Castiel’s gaze, Dean seemed to become temporarily paralyzed, and the opportunity was enough for Sam to pull him inside and to slam the door. He went to fumble with it once again, and Castiel heard a click that he assumed meant the insurance of security against entry.

Dean didn’t move from the spot he was rooted upon, but he studiously avoided Castiel’s stare. It appeared he felt it, however, when his fingers twitched nervously after Castiel’s eyes fell upon them.  Eventually, Sam brushed past him and knocked him out of his stupor, and he made a short trip the empty frame that marked the entrance to the kitchen. There he leaned, arms crossed, staring at Bobby with an expression of determination that Castiel recognized from the Dean-he-knew’s more stubborn turns, although its steeliness was new.

There was a coldness in his gaze and a stiffness in his posture that suggested he was preparing himself for the onslaught of a threat. Under the burden of his presence, Castiel looked away from him and instead focused upon the blonde woman who stared at him expectantly – she was the only face in the room upon which it felt comfortable to look, for hers did not so cruelly mimic a happier past.

“Cas?”

She spoke meekly too, but there was a hint of a failed forced confidence in her voice that made it crack a little.

Castiel looked directly at her, but didn’t acknowledge her otherwise, instead shifting his gaze to witness Dean’s reaction. Dean pursed his lips, but didn’t meet the look, instead only adjusting his arms and pulling them tighter around himself.

The woman turned to Sam.

“Has he said anything?”

Sam looked at Castiel furtively before answering: “He asked about my phone. And I showed him the TV. Nothing since then.”

She looked to Bobby but he shrugged too and looked back to Castiel, who met his gaze but said nothing. In truth, he didn’t know what to say, other than to watch for signs of the souls he was desperately seeking to find in these strangers.

“Cas, my name is Jessica.”

She quirked her lips into a nervous kind of smile, which faded when Castiel appraised her, but said nothing.

Her eyes were sliding back to Sam when Castiel responded. “Hello, Jessica.”

She gave a little intake of breath that was so abrupt it made her hiccup slightly. Turning back to him, she blushed a little and dropped her gaze deferentially when she witnessed his stare.

Castiel raised his eyes to Dean, who still avoided looking at him, and stared determinedly at the floor, in a contained but thunderous looking stance.

Sam and Bobby looked at each other nervously, and Jessica turned to Sam and looked questioningly.

The impasse lasted some time before Castiel spoke:

“Thank you. For retrieving me from that prison. I am entirely indebted to you.”

The three seated together turned to look at Dean, who looked away stubbornly, and accidentally met Castiel’s eyes for a moment. His expression was one of utter terror when their gazes met, although it flashed across his face only quickly before a dark grimness smothered it. Dean turned away from him.

Sam was the first to respond and attract Castiel’s gaze back to the group.

“You’re... welcome.”

Sam shifted in his seat uncomfortably when Castiel’s gaze turned back to Dean.

It was a long time before the woman spoke.

“Are you... alright now?”

Castiel quirked his lips at her: “Yes. I am recovering.”

There was another long pause.

“Cas... can I ask you something, about what you are?”

Castiel didn’t look at her when he answered, instead watching as Dean flinched a little at the sound of his voice when he spoke. He felt his own wings flinch in response, as though his own voice inflicted a burden on him too: “Yes.”

“Are you... I-“

She looked back at Sam, who merely stared back at her wide-eyed.

“What I mean to say is...”

She faltered again under Castiel’s gaze and bit her lip. “This is crazy.”

Castiel transferred his gaze to Dean before he spoke, keeping an eye for his reaction. “I am not of your kind.”

Dean stiffened and kept his eyes determinedly fixed upon the floor.

“I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean recoiled as though he had been hit and turned his gaze furiously on Jessica. “You need to take him to the hospital. Now.”

“He’s not hurt.”

“He’s nuts.”

“Greg-“

“The police then. You need to get him the fuck out of here.”

Castiel looked away from Dean to Jessica, who watched him anxiously.

“I am no danger to you.”

Dean’s shoulder twitched as though Castiel had touched it and he gave a little shiver up his spine. He failed to acknowledge the words, however.

“Jess... please.”

“Greg... you saw what happened. We all did. He’s –“

“Why are you afraid of me?” Castiel’s voice was soft, but the sound of it was enough to turn the room to silence.

Dean’s head snapped up. He kept his eyes on the wall and Castiel watched as a muscle twitched in his cheek, so that the skin sunk in momentarily. His jaw, however, remained set and tense, as though he were grinding his teeth beneath the flesh.

“I am sorry for astounding you, before. I was in a state of distress, and I did not understand what was happening.”

The muscle twitched again, and Dean met his eyes, carefully and slowly. They were glassy, as though he would obscure their expression from Castiel.

“Your voice... it sounds like a man I once knew. He had promised to rescue me, although I had hoped he would not. I thought you were him.”

“Dean.”

Castiel’s head snapped away from Dean and back to Jessica, who looked immediately as though she regretted pronouncing the name.

He tried to manipulate his face into an expression of kindness, when he responded. In truth, it pained him to hear the name spoken with such unfamiliarity, as though Dean were not with them at that exact moment: “Yes”.

 “So... Angels are real.”

The gruff voice was Bobby’s. Castiel looked up at him and sighed softly when he saw the way Bobby too stiffened under his gaze.

“Yes.”

“Is God real?”

That was Sam, and the question tumbled out in a mess of words, so that its meaning was barely discernible. It was a question Castiel had anticipated however, so he provided the answer without clarifying: “Yes.””

There was a silence before Bobby spoke again: “Fuck me.”

The silence swam in the air like thick sludge, making any attempt at speech strenuous. And mortifying.

Eventually, Castiel himself broached it, attempting to quirk his lips into a small smile as he met the gaze of the three seated, attempting to ignore the coldness that radiated from Dean.

“I am sure that those cannot be the only questions you have for me.”

Jessica stifled a small laugh at that, but looked horrified when his gaze fell upon her. “I- I’m sorry.”

He inclined his head at her. “You have no reason to be. I am indebted to _you_.”

Her right eye twitched. “No... not me. Greg, really. It was him.”

Castiel’s eyes flickered back to Dean, who shot an expression of pure fury at Jessica.

“How did you discover my whereabouts?”

Clearly not anticipating a response from Dean, Jessica spoke again. “We’re... doing a project at the site. Mike…” she gestured to where Bobby sat, “is a professor of archaeology at Durham University. And he supervises Keith…” she gestured at Sam, “for his PhD.”

Castiel squinted at the unfamiliarity of the words. “You are scholars?”

“Yes! Well... I’m doing my Masters in the fall. I’m here on an internship from Stanford. It’s a.... college in... America.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed as he processed the unfamiliar words. “I don’t understand.”

“What she means is, uh...” Sam – _Keith_ – spoke, “is that we’re uh, students of history and of ancient sites.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“Anyway, uh...” Sam looked uncertainly at Dean, who failed to provide any acknowledgment of the glance, “there was some building that some people wanted to do at the site and Bobby and I were called in to check to see if the area had any archaeological value, to make sure they didn’t ruin anything.”

Castiel nodded again, demonstrating his comprehension, although it was barely there.

“Part of that was calling in Greg,” Sam pointed at Dean. “He’s a geophysicist, uh...” he paused as Castiel tilted his head again. “It, uh... doesn’t matter... anyway, he did a survey of the area, and found that there was this underground passage. So we excavated it… And uh...” he paused again, looking at Castiel nervously, “it’s been a few months since we excavated the whole thing. At first, we just thought it was part of a passage. Most of it had collapsed in on itself. But it was a major find, in any case, so Jess came over to help us investigate it.”

He flicked a quick look at her, when he thought she wasn’t watching, but she looked back at him on the mention of her name.

“We’ve spent a lot of time down there the last few months. Most of the team has finished up. But we stayed to tidy stuff. Anyway, yesterday Greg was done there, messing with some thermal imaging technology he’s got and he found the entrance to the room we found you in.”

He looked to Dean, who ignored him.

“We managed to squeeze the door open enough to stick it through, and...”

“We saw you” Jessica said hollowly.

Castiel blinked.

“The uh... the technology. It recognizes variations in temperature on a surface. So... the gap in the wall where the entrance was, was a little warmer than the stone. And, once we got inside the room, you were warmer and you showed up on our screen.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “I believe I understand.”

He looked to Dean.

“Thank you, Greg.”

Dean looked down rather than meet his gaze, even after Sam cleared his throat.

The silence, once again, invaded the space, until Jessica finally spoke.

“Cas... why were you down there? Who did that to you?”

Castiel swallowed so audibly that the entire room looked to his throat, even Dean, who quickly flicked his eyes to the floor beside Castiel’s foot, before drawing them slowly back to the tips of his own feet.

“I was...imprisoned. For the crime of animalism.”

“Yeah... you said that before... in the cell. But... what is it?”

Sam ‘s brow was furrowed over his eyelids, but his expression was open and curious.

“I assume from your countenance you have had no acquaintance with any of my kind.”

Sam pursed his lips before he answered. “No... actually lots of people think you don’t exist...”

Castiel smiled at that. It meant his brothers and sisters were home or dead. They were free, at least, from the burden of the Fall and their existential suffering. The fact that he could feel his Father’s touch on his shoulder persuaded him that the former was more likely – they were returned, forgiven and restored. For his mercy, Castiel was utterly grateful.

“Cas?“

Jessica spoke softly and rustled at her lap. With slightly shaking hands, she handed over the bundle on white squares. They were stiff, and unlike the materials Castiel had encountered previously, but soft enough that they drooped in her hand as she held them out to him.

He took them carefully and brought them to his own lap. Upon it was writing, in black and white, of a text type Castiel had never seen before. It was extraordinarily perfect, and each letter was formed in perfect coordination with one another. Those that were used more than once were formed with utter perfection to exact replicas of one another. In the corner of the page was a painting of a man, wearing a golden arc around his head. As he flipped to the next one, he encountered a full page painting of cupids, dancing around a great tree. He stumbled through each, looking up once or twice to meet Castiel’s expectant gaze. Eventually though, he paused on an image, the style of which he was more familiar with.

It reminded him of those illustrating the texts he had once witnessed in the great human library of Bazaane, when he had lived amongst humans with his brothers and sisters, immediately after the Fall.

The image was a traumatic one, and not unlike the style of the time. It depicted an Angel, in animalistic form, laying siege to a small village. The villagers’ faces were painted to represent utter horror and they reached out desperately to where one of their number was clutched, in pieces, in the claws of the Angel. The Angel was depicted as grinning widely at is howling audience, through bloody fangs, as it tore into a man who was still alive and writhing as he was devoured.

The image recalled too many foul memories for his liking.

Castiel winced and let the picture fall to the ground. Jessica made no move to recover it, but instead stuttered out at once “I-... I’m sorry. I-“

Castiel held up a hand to silence her. “There is no need to apologize, Jessica. I only need one moment.”

He inhaled carefully and exhaled in as controlled a way as he could, trying to employ the human method of calming a nervousness pooling in his belly that he had learned early after the Fall. Slowly, he raised his eyes again to meet his audience.

“I was imprisoned for fear that I would become that kind of monster... and because I chose to protect a human.”

When Jessica spoke, her voice was barely an exhale: “Dean?”

Castiel felt a twitch in one of his wings when she spoke the name, which repeated itself when the motion caught Dean’s eyes and they flickered towards it. Self-conscious at the sudden attention, Castiel drew his wings across his body, covering the blanket that had been strewn across him to hide his near nakedness.

“Yes.”

“Were you like that, Cas?”

“No.”

“Then why-“’

She was silenced by the touch of Sam’s hand on her shoulder.

Castiel turned his gaze to Sam.

“Keith, there is no cause for concern. If you desire, I will give you my account.”

Even Dean’s eyes flickered to his face at that and this time they held his gaze momentarily before deferring.

“What?”

Bobby’s shock was enough to make him momentarily drop his guard.

Castiel took a moment to register the confusion: “I would speak with you of my history.”

“No, Cas, he’s...” Sam trailed off. “It doesn’t matter. We’d.... we’d love to hear your... story.”

“I am glad.” Castiel looked to Dean and kept his eyes on him as he spoke, even though Dean shivered a little under the gaze.

“But first...” he attempted a grin in what he hoped was a familiar and friendly expression, “if you would permit, I would clothe and clean myself. My... odor is no doubt distressing to you.”

Both Sam and Jessica gave surprised little snorts, which made them look at one another with wide eyes, and Dean looked on at them in horror.

Castiel blinked, surprised to see their immediate change in demeanor at the most simple form of self-denigration. They froze under his gaze, but seemed still elated and suddenly at ease.

“Of... of course, Cas.... let me... I’’ll show you the shower. Jess, can you get some of my clothes, please?”

She appraised Castiel. “Greg’s a better fit.”

She looked at Dean hopefully but he confirmed his distaste with the idea with a single glare.

“Right, ok then...” She stood up and then caught Sam’s eye “you’re... ok with me going through your things?”

Sam blinked and looked away quickly. His reply was a little stammered, and slightly too fast: “uh, yeah, sure. Third drawer down.”

“Right.” She flicked Sam a nervous little smile and tiptoed from the room.

Sam stood and Dean at once withdrew from the doorway and back into the kitchen, not bothering to acknowledge Castiel, Sam or Bobby.

Sam furrowed his brow in a way that Castiel assumed was meant to convey sympathy: “Sorry about Greg. He’s just... I don’t know really. He’s an asshole.”

The sound of Dean shuffling in the kitchen stopped momentarily. Castiel expected a kind of cocky reply, but none came, other than a painful silence until Sam gestured towards another doorway on the opposite side of the room from where Dean had situated himself. It was only when he crossed the threshold, leaving the room, that he heard Dean’s sigh of relief at his departure.

...

Sam was embarrassed by their circumstance. That was clear. He’d given an explanation of the room quickly – it was a washroom, in essence, although of a far more sophisticated nature than Castiel had ever contemplated. There was a bath in the room, though it was far larger than Castiel had ever witnessed. Sam explained that humans generally preferred to use a “shower” device, which simulated a heavy kind of rainfall. He left Castiel with a variety of bottles, the scents of which were entirely overpowering, and described where they ought to be applied on his body. After he’d fiddled with the shower he’d excused himself quickly, with the promise he would await Castiel ‘just outside the door’ should he require anything at all.

The water was lukewarm, a pleasant temperature, and of a sufficient pressure that the preliminary layers of dirt and grime were washed from him with no effort on his part. The secondary layers took longer, and required a vicious scraping of his nails along his skin in places to dislodge the muck that had accumulated there. Somewhere within it was the dried blood and skin that his body had been healed of – Castiel could smell it in the air.

The cleaning was surprisingly successful. His Grace had not seen fit to purge his skin of the filth that had accumulated upon it. But it had prevented absorption and discoloration by forming a kind of protective barrier between the grime he wore, and the skin underneath. With the effort of manually purifying himself, the crusted surface peeled away, leaving a layer of fresh skin underneath that looked to have ever been untouched by the vileness of Lilith’s tomb. Even his wings were easily washed - his preening glands had remained in operation in some parts, keeping the feathers slick and preventing any dirt from attaching itself to their exterior. The more extreme parts of the wing were less well cared for, and parts had disintegrated. But the feathers hung loose on the wing as if they were prepared to molt – his Grace must have triggered the growing of new feathers where necessary.

His hair cleaned fairly easily too. Although it grew long upon his head and face and was terrifically tangled, its filthiness was superficial only. With the application of Sam’s balms and lotions, the muck was cleansed from his hair as easily as had it been placed there only moments ago. The tangles were more stubborn and he embarrassedly called Sam for assistance. Sam averted his eyes when he entered the room, passing Castiel a large soft cloth which he indicated embarrassedly Castiel should wrap around himself.

Sam was reluctant to let him carry out the task of shaving himself. After Castiel confessed he had never performed the action with the utensil provided, he was subjected to a number of cuts and nicks as Sam torturously dragged a bizarre looking device across his skin. The entire process was carried out in silence, with Sam dropping his gaze deferentially whenever Castiel turned his eyes towards him.

After, Jessica was summoned to them, where she commenced cutting away the matted clumps that had assembled at the back of Castiel’s head. Unlike Sam, she was less awed by Castiel’s silence, instead filling it with an explanation of the college, Stanford, that she had mentioned previously, and an account of the “feminist” movement, that had seen women acquire more equal in relation to their male counterparts that justified their place in an educational institution of such prominence.

When she was done, Castiel reached out and patted her hand in thanks, both for cutting his hair and the account of the history of her gender. “Thank you, Jessica. I am glad – my Father never intended that the females would be subjugated. He loves you as purely and as strongly as he loves mankind.”

She blushed a little at that, although she kept her hand very still under his touch until he withdrew. There was silence until she presented Castiel with a mirror, which far exceeded any he had seen in his time, for him to her admire her handiwork.

He was not fully restored yet. His face was scarred under the hair and oddly positioned in places where his jaw and been broken by Alastair’s boot. One eye drooped slightly, and there were lines of weariness that Castiel had witnessed in human kind as they drew close to death. They were aesthetic burdens only, to presumably be restored by his Grace in due course as it became more limber and efficient and accustomed to subconscious use, but nonetheless, they were jarring to him in their foreignness.

Sam and Jessica watched in silence as he examined the rest of his body, noting the white scars where his Grace had purified the flesh of its most significant injuries. He ran his fingers along them carefully, remembering each whip, bite or tear that had been inflicted upon him and detailing those that still marked him.

Jessica’s voice was soft and hollow again: “Cas”.

He met her eyes. “I will heal in due time, Jessica. It will be days only, if that. There is no cause for concern.”

In his stomach though, he felt a brewing of distress that he had not been returned to Dean in a properly recognizable form. While the essence of his face was there, it was still broken and distorted - a far cry from the features that Dean had worshipped. It wasn’t that he wished to appear to Dean in the form that he had found pleasing. But it was an impediment to his intentions.

What mattered was _Dean,_ and drawing him from the cage of the man Greg that awaited him in the kitchen. Castiel was certain Dean was within him, but to recover him from the shadow of having passed into Death, and having returned, was a task that Castiel could not be certain was within his power. Perhaps when his grace was rejuvenated, he could touch Dean’s soul and trigger his memories – but at the rate of his Grace’s recovery, and his complete inability to utilize it yet, he had no idea when such an event could occur.

As such, he had formulated an intention in the meantime to restore Dean’s memory more practically. The fact that Dean had recovered him, however unconsciously, indicated that such memories were latent within him. Otherwise, how else, in a world so much more vast than the one he had inhabited in the past, could Dean have so particularized his location and returned to him? Again, he was uncertain of the efficacy of the strategy – but in any case, in order to utilize his Grace upon Dean he would require the trust of Greg, and his consent to the invasion of his mind and soul.

So Castiel intended to reach out to Dean with his words, and his account of their time together, in the hope of shattering whatever walls Death had assembled between them and restoring Dean to him once again. To do that, he required every trigger at his disposal, including his physical appearance, to brave the murkiness that would cloud Dean’s thoughts and to pick away at the walls in his mind.

“Are you ok, Cas?”

Castiel caught himself from where he had been immersed in his thoughts, and looked to them both.

The word “ok” was unfamiliar, but through the tone of concern he understood its sentiment: “Yes, I apologize. Thank you for your assistance.”

He stood slowly, taking care not to let his wings spread about in the room, and brush up against Sam or Jessica, instead pinning them flat to his back. “I am ready to speak with you, when you are willing.”

Jessica grinned and gestured at the cloth wrapped around him. “Be good to get you dressed first, Cas. Here.” She held out a pair of breeches to him in a soft blue fabric that was dense but smooth in texture, and a smaller white square that was far softer.

Sam’s eyes bulged at the site of what she held in her hands.

“You got him underwear? From my...?”

Jessica looked up at Sam, flushing: “Yes... uh, sorry about that.”

She looked away and but found herself staring at Castiel’s bare chest, which then provoked her to become extremely interested in the contents of ceiling above her.

Sam flushed even more furiously, and similarly became unwaveringly fascinated by the floor beneath him.

Castiel held out the offending white garment in front of him.

“Jessica, what is this?”

She threw a glance at Sam, blushing even more furiously. “Um, Keith, can you...?”

Sam caught her gaze and swallowed. “Uh, yeah sure... uh, see you outside in a sec...”

She gave a twitchy kind of smile to Castiel and then left in a hurry, accidentally walking into the doorframe on her way out.

When she was gone and Sam had proceeded to exhale slowly and deliberately twice, he turned his attention to Castiel.

“Did you ever wear a loincloth, um, in 1400?”

Castiel nodded and turned his gaze back to the white garment in front of him.

“It’s the same thing. Just a bit easier. You just, uh, stick your legs through these...” he gestured to two holes that resembled the leg holes of the breeches Castiel had worn previously. Suddenly the garment made sense.

Castiel stopped Sam mid-demonstration of how the item was to be donned. “I understand. Thank you.”

He then proceeded to drop the cloth, while Sam averted his eyes again, and pulled on the underwear and breeches. He cleared his throat when he was assembled, and Sam flushed as he reached forwards to Castiel and demonstrated how to pull up a small bronze appendage that dangled at the front of the breeches. The movement made the breeches secure, although they were far too long upon Castiel’s frame, which was somewhat smaller than Sam’s bulk. Nonetheless, he smiled at Sam appreciatively and turned his gaze to a shirt that Sam held in his hands.

They both met one another’s eyes after contemplating it for a few moments. “I guess we could cut some holes in the back of it?” Sam offered, sounding somewhat helpless.

“I did so with my own clothing, years ago.” Castiel answered encouragingly, and Sam gave him a quick smile before reaching for the scissors that Jessica had used to cut Castiel’s hair, and cutting two large panels into the back of the shirt.

He did so without measuring the span between Castiel’s wings, so the shirt did not quite sit properly. Nonetheless, Sam seemed better assured once Castiel was properly covered and surveyed his handiwork with a look of pride. Castiel smiled again to buffer his growing confidence and allowed Sam to lead him back to the room where he was awaited by Bobby.

Dean appeared to not have moved from the kitchen, but it seemed Jessica had joined him and there and they were carrying out a hushed conversation.

Upon his arrival into the room, however, the conversation ceased immediately, and Jessica returned to the doorway where Dean had stood before.

“Cas, are you hungry? I’m sorry, we weren’t sure if...”

He smiled at her, determined to encourage her confidence with him as he had with Sam. “No, I thank you Jessica, but I have no need to eat at present.” His Grace, immovable as it was, had seen fit to attend to his hunger and thirst.

“Right. Do you mind if we just...?”

“No. Please, satiate yourselves.”

She smiled nervously and returned to the kitchen where she returned moments later with a few slices of what appeared to be perfectly square white bread and a bowl of fruit. It went ignored by the party as they sat before him, on their own seat once more and eagerly awaited his speaking.

Dean, however, refused to remove himself from the kitchen. Jessica caught the flicker of his gaze to the room, and moved herself forwards on the seat: “I could get him, if you...”

He smiled at her. “Do not worry, Jessica. I am happy to proceed.”

Dean was listening, even if he hid himself from Castiel. That was all that mattered.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. But Dare Not Cry

** CHAPTER THREE **

** 1424 **

The light of dawn had only breached the window for a moment before Castiel was stirring. He was curled up in his nest – a tangle of rough cloths, furs and sheets assembled unceremoniously in the corner of the small cottage which he inhabited. His wings were folded around his body, which he had assembled into a soft ball in the nest’s centre, wrapped in on himself to keep the night’s warmth close to his naked skin.

The dawn marked the beginning of his day, Castiel knew. So it had always been. Years of habit and isolation had attuned his senses to the vicissitudes of his environment – he was well-practiced in its routine. As long as he had called his cottage home, Castiel had awoken with the other organisms of the surrounding forest, and joined them in their morning chorus and the flurry of activity that followed. Work was the sole aspiration of the daylight hours, for the night was a dangerous time – an audible presence in the dark forest was suicide.

Routine was a necessity to Castiel, just like the forest’s other inhabitants. Routine meant resources, and resources meant survival. The days were growing shorter, and the nights longer. He had sensed the cooling in the air, and its dryness. There was no alternative, but for vigorous and consuming preparation.

But the dawn was unlike the thousands of others that had preceded it. Castiel did not wish to leave his nest, for he had barely slept the night before. Several hours before the sun’s rays had lit the forest’s treetops, he had been awoken by a vicious dream and he had never properly recovered enough to revisit sleep.

Dreams themselves were not new to him - he’d long since adjusted to their strangeness, as with other such necessary aspects of virtual humanity.

Most often, he dreamed of what consumed his day – the chatter of the forest, the rustle of the nearby stream and the warmth of the afternoon sun across his wings as he lay in quiet contemplation. He’d dreamed of other things too, but they were less frequent. Another presence, a warm hand to hold, a smile and the sound of animated chatter. Sometimes it was his brothers - long since lost – and other times it was faceless, but a comfort all the same. He’d dreamed of flights across the landscapes he had taken years ago – seeing great mountains and coasts, dark forests and the brightness and vibrancy of human cities. He’d dreamed of memories that had never occurred – moments with his lost brothers and sisters – sharing his forest with them and its delights. He’d even lived through being woken at night, drenched with sweat and shaking, remembering the haunted, deadened eyes the others right before their grace was extinguished and before him they turned animal.

All those dreams, he had accepted. He accepted them as part of his demi-human state. He had learned to live with them, and distinguish them from the truth of waking.

But the dreams of previous night were novel, and terrifying. He had awoken with horror at first, and had sought desperately about himself for escape, until his eyes had adjusted and he had been met with relief at the sight of his familiar home. It sent the memory of the dream away into the recesses of his mind, where it was safer kept.

Still, he had been unable to sleep since, and it aggravated him. Winter was coming, and his preparations were all-consuming. He had to protect his home from the cold, and gather supplies for the months in which food would be scarce. But without proper rest, his limbs were stiff and his mood was sour. He had come to find the pleasure in sleep, and to be deprived of it, when he had so much to do, was infuriating.

Glumly, he let his first wing stretch out and up behind his body. It shivered as the muscles stretched after hours of stagnancy. The combined effort and relief of that movement made him emit a small groan – even in the years without companionship, he had not quite shaken the impulse to speak, or make some kind of noise on occasion. Largely, Castiel imagined such sounds fulfilled the purpose of keeping himself company, for he did not envisage conversation as part of his immediate (or even distant) future. There was no utility in preserving the power of speech.

When he eventually emerged from his nest, the surface of his skin startled at its icy temperature, prickling in goosebumps along his arms, legs and chest. His wings were of sufficient warmth during the night, but they were of no use during the day, when they stayed folded at his back. For that purpose, Castiel kept a small supply of human clothes that he had acquired years ago, when he had fought for the humans that travelled the roads. They were old, tattered and weathered. When they exhausted their utility, he would replace them. But that requirement arose infrequently, and less so since he had stopped monitoring the Road.

He slid into them wearily, and fitted the panels which he had cut into his shirt around the shape of his wings. It was an exercise requiring some dexterity, but Castiel had long since acquired the skill and secured the shirt quickly and without ceremony.

The tasks of his day loomed ahead of him, and he started at the realization that the sensation of “looming” was new - an offset of the disturbance last night’s dream had caused, he supposed. Castiel let his body a small shiver before he pushed the memory to the back of his mind. There were tasks to be completed, and with the days shortening, he had to be proactive. Thoughts of looming were of no assistance when there was work to be done.

The sun had risen over the horizon by the time Castiel had relieved himself and fed. His first task, as always, was to tend to the vegetable garden he kept behind his home. It was a fairly tiny plot – for it only had to service his minimal needs. Still, Castiel was proud of it, and he had done well this year – with minimal losses. His crops were almost ripe, which pleased him. He would be able to harvest them in a few days, before the winter took hold and rendered the plot unusable. They would tide him over well until spring.

When his tending was completed, he turned to gathering. There were a few sites in the forest that required harvesting and they were spread out distantly from one another in the dark mass of trees.

Castiel’s favorite part of the day was flying from one gathering spot to another.

He kept his trajectory low and close to the treetops, almost skimming them on occasion. It wasn’t that he feared being seen by humans – there hadn’t been one in the vicinity of his home for twenty years, as far as he was aware. But he feared alerting the other angelic inhabitants of the forest. Even though, after all this time, they were largely tame to his presence, during the day Castiel preferred to keep his existence quiet and unobtrusive. Encounters with his former brothers and sisters were painful for him, and often came at great emotional inconvenience.

 Visiting his gathering sites took a few hours – he collected hazelnuts from a favorite tree at the north point of the forest, and gathered blackberries from some bushes on his way home. His routine was slightly interrupted when he sighted a fox on his return journey. He stalked the creature on the ground, before he was able to catch it unawares and kill it painlessly – as was his way. When its neck hung limp in his hands, he held it to him and stroked its fur – “I am sorry, brother. I thank you.”

It was midday when he returned home. He deposited his findings inside and prepared the fox. The meat was hung to dry, also to add to his winter stores. He hung the pelt too. It would make a warm addition to his nest when the cold arrived.

The morning’s necessaries done with, he took the opportunity to bathe in the river which ran in the forest around ten minutes’ walk from his home, across a well worn, albeit somewhat overgrown path that had likely once serviced several families, or even a village, the remnants of which otherwise long since decayed. Once properly cleansed, he lay in the sun, complacently grooming his feathers and allowing them to bristle with pleasure at the faint warmth of the sun’s rays. He left his clothes to dry beside him.

The relaxation was welcome after his morning’s efforts and he entered a stupor momentarily. In that moment of vulnerability, last night’s dream entered his consciousness with an evil veracity and at its snaking its first finger into his mind, he jerked up, breathing harshly. Within moments it was subdued. It was not time to think of it yet, he decided. The day’s tasks were not yet complete.

The late afternoon was occupied with miscellaneous activities. He surveyed his house for signs of damage – there were a few leaks to be repaired and the chimney was jammed. After, he went through his stores and noted what he would need to complete his winter inventory. The nuts and fox would do well, but he was short on other necessities, like flour. He sighed when he realized that. He would most certainly need to make a raid on a trader’s carriage in the next month. The thought displeased him – the raids were difficult and dangerous. More than once, despite his strength, he had been caught by the swipe of a blade. Without his Grace to heal him, recovery was a long and overwrought process. This close to winter, with so much preparation still to do, he couldn’t afford to be out of commission. Still, a raid was necessary. He would just have to ensure he took extra precautions to avoid injury.

The setting sun marked the end of Castiel’s day. He would be house-bound for the night, as always. Just as the dawn awoke the forest, the moonlight awoke his brothers and sisters. They were loudest in the early evening, and their chorus of screeches and howls was painful, not just in pitch, to Castiel’s ears.  

Settled at his table (ears stubbornly closed to the evening choir), with the berries and some boiled vegetables before him, he was finally free to revisit last night’s events.

The dream had been unusual, and Castiel was unsure what to make of it. Disturbing dreams were not usually distressing to him - not after all this time. So his being unsettled was a warrant for concern. And his plan for the evening was to understand why he felt the way he did, and rectify it immediately.

The dream had started like most of his others. He lived through prosaic tasks. But then the dream gathered momentum, and the days repeated over and over. He lived through years. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Then it stopped and that was when the strangeness had commenced. He visualized what he dreamed in his mind’s eye.

_He was tending to his vegetable garden when a shadow fell across the ground. He turned to see a group of his brothers and sisters, standing solemnly before him in a silent, mournful gathering. Their wings drooped onto the ground and their heads were bowed, as though in prayer. He could not see their eyes, so he could not recognize their former selves in them. But he felt a pull in his chest all the same, wishing he could rescue them from their torment._

_The largest of his family raised its head and met Castiel’s eyes. He searched its face, trying to discern who stood before him. But before he could certain, the creature opened its mouth and screeched. The screech was inhuman, and soul-shattering. The same blood-curdling shriek that Castiel tried to hide from every night. There was no sense in it – no resemblance to the language it once knew. There was only pain and anger and regret. And it turned Castiel’s stomach to rot._

_Slowly, his brothers and sisters joined the refrain. Their pained whines were agony to Castiel, worse than he had ever heard before, and he fell to his knees, whimpering and clutching at his ears. “Please! Please!” he tried to shout over their chorus “My brothers and sisters – I am sorry – I do not know how to help you! Please! Please stop!” But they did not stop. Their cries became louder and shriller. Castiel could hear them resonating in his very bones. His eardrums burst and blood coursed down his neck. But still, he was not relieved. The cries seared through his head, into his mind and turned red and angry behind his eyes. And then he heard, through the calls, a shadow of speech. It was a voice he knew, but he could not discern its owner through the pain. “Oh brother, you are a fool.”_

_He tried to cry out, for the pain of the voice was almost ripping him apart – he could feel his skin straining with the swell of it through his body. Please, please stop. Through the agony, he heard the shadow of other voices through the screaming – there was laughter. His brothers and sisters, they ridiculed him, through their mouths of jagged, broken and yellow teeth. They, the disgusting creatures that stood before him, mocked him._

_“Please leave me! I cannot face the darkness! Not yet!” The laughter amplified and the voice spoke again – “Castiel, you are already in darkness.”_

_“No! No! PLEASE!” He’s tried to cry to them – to try and make them remember their love for him. He was their brother and they could not wish him harm. But his screams went unanswered and slowly he became aware of the darkness. It pulsed across his body and twisted around his wrists and ankles. He tried fruitlessly to shake it off, but it moved under his very skin – he could feel it tearing through the muscles and sinews below the surface. It ascended, until it twisted around his neck, cutting off his scream and throttling him._

_“Pl- ease!” he choked out, raising his head to try one last time to convince his brothers and sisters. They stopped shrieking and they stared at him mournfully. Their claws hung at their sides, unmoving. It dawned on Castiel – it was not they who controlled the beast. It was not they who wished him harm._

_Tears streamed down his face as he struggled against his bonds and his chest burned. The pain of the cries was gone, but it was replaced by fear. Fear that this was the end for Castiel – his brothers and sisters awaited him to become one of their number. They came to see his funeral. His Grace was gone._

_But, at that thought, his grace pulsed in his chest. It was burning hot – too hot. It fought to liberate itself and to destroy the thing that choked him. But it could not break free. The darkness was too much for it to overcome._

_What is happening to me? Help me brothers! The words crossed his mind, but his swollen tongue could no longer let them out. Rather, he choked on it. His eyes were bulbous – he could feel them swelling in his eye sockets, fit to burst inside of him. The end was nigh. He knew his brothers and sisters heard them though, for they turned their gazes to him and the leader spokes once more. Not through a screech, but with a deep human voice._

_“Behold, Castiel the fool. He dies alone.”_

Castiel threw up when he recalled that last line. He made it to his bucket, which was a relief, but the terror was uncontrolled, and he made a mess regardless. He had not remembered the parting shot of his dreaming companions when the dream woke him that morning. They had emerged from the recesses of his mind as he carefully relived the dream. He wished he hadn’t. The disturbance that it had caused, he knew, would deprive him of sleep for oncoming nights.

Where this disturbing thought might have originated, he had no clue. Its meaning was unclear to him. Castiel feared more than anything that the day would come when he would join his brothers and sisters in their torment. When he too would become nothing more than a winged beast, driven by instinct and hatred and cruelty. But the dream had made it seem that there was more to be feared. There was something darker than the darkness that his family had fallen into. But what was that? Castiel knew it struck his whole body with terror. Every time the thought crossed his mind his body reacted with horror, jerking absurdly as though to run away from it. But it was not a terror he had ever been consciously aware of.

That was absurd, he concluded, that he should be so deranged by a fear he could not name. To succumb was a most ineffectual route. If the terror would manifest, it could be dealt with. But nameless, it was only a vicious gnawing that threatened his sanity. His sanity was precious, this fear was not. The only solution was to deprive it of an audience. He was decided, he would not address it again.

He did so that evening, contemplating instead the emergence of the stars in the night sky. He decided he liked the subtle flicker of the light he witnessed, as he gazed at them. It was animated – it gave them life. The thought was comforting as he stripped and curled into his nest for the evening. It was comforting as it accompanied him into sleep, nestled in the pleasant warmth of his wings. And when the dream awoke him with a start two hours later, the starlight was a delight until the first rays of dawn once again breached his windowsill and the forest stirred to life.

…

Dean awoke before dawn, as was his way. A lifetime of soldier’s training meant his body was ever-prepared to rise early, and make the most of the day. And even within the citadel, when his duties were lesser, he found it hard to shake the habit. When he ignored the impulse, and tried to sleep later into the morning, his muscles ached and shivered for action until he was forced to acquiesce.

Waking was momentary, almost instantaneous. As soon as Dean properly registered where he was, he slipped carefully from the bed and retrieved the bundle of his discarded clothing from its base, which was crumpled and still damp with sweat from the night previously. He commenced dressing hurriedly, sparing only a moment to glance out the window - dawn would arrive in half an hour, and he had little time to prepare.

The light thuds he made as he wriggled into his breeches were enough to wake the woman in the bed, who stirred a little, with a soft sigh, before she opened her eyes and lazily trailed them down Dean’s unclothed chest.

 “Leaving so soon?” Despite the question, she didn’t move from her position curled around the pillow beneath her, on her stomach, hair tangled at the back of her head.

Dean chuckled, but didn’t answer, pulling his undershirt over his head and tucking it into his breeches, which he commenced lacing up loosely and roughly.

With a little whine, she moved herself, rolling over slowly onto her back and drawing back the sheet that covered her to reveal her naked upper body. It was an impressive one: “Can’t I tempt you to stay another hour?”

Dean didn’t cease with his activities, grabbing for his tunic, and pulling it around his shoulders, buttoning it at his chest. But he did cast his eye down her body appreciatively, with a salacious grin: “It’s a tempting offer, but I’m needed elsewhere this morning.”

“Pity.” She pouted, and pulled the sheet back up over herself, curling up and exhaling a soft little sigh.

“You have no idea.” He cast her a smirk before turning to pick up his belt, from which hung a scabbard and a small dagger and securing it at his waist.

“How long will you be away for?”

“Not long. Two to three weeks. We may be forced to take another route.”

“Will it be dangerous?” Despite the seriousness of the question, she didn’t remove her face from the crook of her elbow, which she had slung over her eyes.

He turned, smirking. “Why, do you fear for my life?”

“Hmph”. She nestled back into the pillows and stretched her free arm languidly in the air. “Please. With a face like mine, there are plenty of soldiers who would only be too happy to keep me entertained in your absence.”

He raised his eyebrows, although his smile was knowing. “Even so, I doubt they’ll keep you as well-entertained as I do.”

She dropped her arm from her eyes and smirked at him, purring out a response.

“Perhaps some will do it better.”

“You think so?”

“Perhaps you ought to remind me of what I’ll miss.”

He grinned and moved over to the bed, crawling carefully upon over his hands and knees (avoiding her covered limbs) until they were face to face. Watching her carefully, he slid his hand slowly up the shape of her thigh, still covered by the sheet, and reached between her legs. When he made contact with what she hid beneath there, she let out a stifled, breathy moan. He smirked and lowered his face to hers, slipping his tongue into her waiting mouth. She kissed him back lazily and sighed contentedly as his weight pressed further down into her.

At that, Dean pulled away and turned his back to her, still grinning. “I thought so. You will miss me.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he turned to sit at the edge of the bed beside her, where he reached for his discarded boots and began hurriedly lacing them.

“Hardly. I may open my legs for you, Dean Winchester, but I’d never open my heart.”

He chuckled again. Turning back to her and planting a soft kiss on her lips. “And for that, you are my favorite woman in Ardus.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m one of many favorites, dear. You can stop with the platitudes. You’ll still be welcome to my bed when I return.”

“The thought will keep me occupied every night on the road.” He stood and brushed down his tunic, and ran a hand over his head to flatten the mussed hair there.

She threw a pillow at him.

“Hurry up and get out. Before anyone catches you.”

He grinned and flashed a wink, as crossed the room and opened the door. “I’ll bring you a present from Etrea.”

“Please don’t. You have terrible taste.”

He picked up the pillow and threw it back. She grimaced and flopped back onto the bed. “Bye Lydia.”

…

It wasn’t difficult to sneak from her chambers. For one thing, Dean was well-accustomed to it. He and Lydia had been enjoying one another’s company for over a year, when Dean was in the city, and he knew the servants’ routines well enough to skirt around their activities.

She wasn’t the only woman that Dean visited when he was at home, but she was certainly the one he was with most frequently. It wasn’t just that Dean liked her in bed. He liked that she made no mistake about why he sought her out, and she never asked too many questions. For her, it was about getting what she couldn’t from her dullard husband, without compromising her status at the Empress’ Court. For him, it was about the small comfort of human pleasure before he left for the Road. That was it. No obligations, no feelings, nothing unnecessary. And it worked well.

The streets were quiet as he made his way from the Empress’ palace to the cottage he lived in, near the border of the Citadel. He had his own quarters in the Palace – they had been awarded to him when he joined the ranks of the Slayers’ Order – but he preferred not to use them. Despite the Court’s concerns, Dean didn’t live in abject poverty.  And when he was in Ardus, he preferred to spend what little time he had with his brother, rather than be compelled into joining the mind-numbing ceremonies that passed for entertainment within the palace walls.

It was light by the time he reached his home, and the city was stirring. He didn’t bother about staying quiet as he opened the door. Sam was obliged at the Palace’s libraries early for his work, and he liked to exercise before he went. He’d likely have been awake longer than Dean, even.

He burst into the living area with utmost disregard for ceremony, calling out loudly (in spite of their neighbors): “Darling, I’m home! What’s for breakfast?”

He heard Sam rustling around in his bedroom, and he emerged a few moments later looking incredulous, and somewhat rumpled:

“Really, Dean? The night before you leave for the Road? Shouldn’t you have been resting?”

“Sammy, these missions can take time. A man has needs. Every good soldier prepares.”

Sam grimaced and looked away.

“Ugh Dean, I don’t want the details. Not this early in the morning.”

“You asked.”

“Please, for the love of God, forget I did.”

Sam took the kettle in between a pair of tongs and set it upon the coals of the fire, which still looked to be smoldering from the night previously.

“Sorry, Sammy. I’m just trying to do you a service. I didn’t think you’d like it if I brought them back here. Don’t scholars need silence to work?”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Honestly, Dean. I concede. Forget I mentioned it. Let’s just have breakfast.”

Dean grinned and clicked his tongue, but said no more about it. Bless Sam and his virgin’s heart.

They were settled at the table with bread stuffed with dates, and fresh fruit (Sam’s choosing) when another figure emerged from Sam’s room.

“Oh wonderful. _You’re_ here.” Ruby, wearing the garb of a Princess’ lady-in-waiting and a sour expression, stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

Dean raised his eyebrows and grinned at Sam. “See you took advantage of the fact I wasn’t here last night, after all Sammy.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak but Dean shushed him: “Sh sh sh. I don’t want the details. Not this early in the morning.” Grinning, he tore a huge bite of bread from the slice he was holding – that far exceeded the capacities of his mouth – and took delight in puffing out his cheeks and chewing it while grinning at Ruby. She curled her lip: “You’re disgusting.”

He just grinned more, deliberately letting his mouth drop open a little as he chewed and creating a more audible lip smack than necessary, and leaned back in his seat, clasping his hands together behind his head.

Sam cleared his throat. “Ruby came here for dinner last night. It was late by the time we were finished, and she fell asleep. I slept in your room.”

“Mmmm hmmmm.”

“Dean…”

“What?” Dean swallowed the bread with great and hurried effort. “She fell asleep _in your bed_ when it was too late to walk back to the Palace. Nothing suggestive about that at all.”

“Dean!”

“I’m sure the many of the Princess’ ladies-in-waiting are often left stranded in men’s beds after-hours. Absolutely understandable. Downright chivalrous of you.”

Ruby hissed and advanced on him. “I’ll have you know I am fastidious in my obligations to the Princess!”

“You’re the only one.” Dean smirked, thinking of the way Lydia had melted under his touch that morning. That particular lady-in-waiting had hardly any virtue left to speak of, not that he was complaining. From what he understood from Lydia, Princess Lilith’s unmarried ladies spent their days singing, sewing, dancing and gossiping. After that kind of day, he couldn’t blame them for needing something a little more entertaining, regardless of the Princess’ insistence on the virginity of her unmarried maids.

“Sam!” Ruby stared his brother down. Sam shot a quick wary glance at Dean, and took her hand.

“Dean, stop. You know Ruby’s not like that. This is going to be our last breakfast together in a while. Can we try to enjoy it?”

“I was. Baiting your lady is great sport.”

“Dean…”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” He stood, taking another slice of bread, and an apple with him. “I’ve got to be at the gates soon anyway. Still lots to pack.”

“You haven’t even packed yet?!” Dean grinned at Sam obnoxiously again, and grabbed an extra slice of bread from the table, before walking briskly to his room. He could practically hear Ruby rolling her eyes as he left, and she didn’t wait until he shut the door before she started reprimanding Sam in a furious whisper.

He shut the door behind him, glad of the opportunity to escape her wilting gaze for a few minutes. Back to the door and ears closed to Ruby’s tantrum, he inhaled and exhaled carefully. He loved his brother, and he wished him every happiness, but God, did it have to be with that bitch? He’d hated Ruby from the moment he met her and she’d reciprocated in kind. Sure, she was beautiful, sure -  thick brown hair, huge brown eyes and plump lips – the picture of a perfect courtier. But her devotion to the Empress and the Princess was mindless worship, and she was forever dragging Sam to events at court, away from Dean and the books that he had preferred before she had appeared.

The one part of going on the Road that he hated was leaving Sam, under her influence, with no one else to mediate. Sam wasn’t made for the silly courtier’s life. He had so much more to offer. But Ruby persisted in displaying him as a prize at every event necessary. In Dean’s opinion, Sam’s association with her brought far more embarrassment upon the family than his numerous associations with many finer ladies at court. Even if his father had never seen it that way.

Dean sighed, grabbing his saddlebag from its resting spot in the corner of his room and throwing in a few articles of clothing. In truth, he had been properly prepared for this trip for days. His packs were ready and waiting at the stables with his mare. Preparation was part of the routine – to psych himself up before leaving the protection of the Citadel. But he tried to hide his nervous planning from Sam, and acted a bravado and casualness that he didn’t really feel. Sam never understood how truly terrified Dean was on the Road, and Dean didn’t want him to. The thought of Sam anxious at home prevented him from operating effectively beyond the city walls, and he needed his wits about him if he wanted to return home.

He was done in minutes, but he waited out several more, staring blankly at the streets beyond his window, where traders were beginning to set up stalls in the streets. Steeling himself, he opened the door. Luckily Ruby had left the room.

He gave Sam a quick clap on the shoulder as he passed. “Come see me off?”

“Yeah, see you at the gates.” Sam, still blushing from his scolding, didn’t look up. It didn’t matter. Ruby be damned, Dean knew Sam would be at the gates, regardless. He always was.

And with that Dean was out the door.

…

The stablehand had Dean’s mare, Impala, saddled and waiting by the time he reached the stables, and his travelling kit laid out. Dean didn’t wear armor for the Road. He found it inhibited movement too much in encounters. There were times when flight, not fight, was the best option. And he preferred not to be weighed down. Instead he wore a vest made of several layers of leather, branded with the Empress’ colors of black and red, and the mark of the Slayers’ Order, to reflect his higher status in Ardus’ soldiers’ ranks. The kit wasn’t favored by many soldiers, offering only limited protection against the claws and bite of the Angels. At first, he’d been mocked for the get-up. That was before he became the third man (currently in service) in the citadel to have felled an Angel and earned the title of “Slayer”. Now there was no more mocking, and the younger recruits had taken to ordering similar garb from Ardus’ leatherworkers.

Dean’s status as a member of the Order gave him significant standing amongst his peers. On any given trip on the Road, he was Captain. Everything was his call – the route they travelled, the number and identity of men taken, the provisions packed. It was an incredible responsibility, given the risk to life and limb posed beyond the city walls and Dean’s limited experience. Soldiers were only permitted to leave the gates at age 18, and Dean felled his Angel at 21.

Dean had met the burden tremendously. He had the lowest soldier fatality rate of the three slayers and other assorted Captains, and soldiers-in-training clamored to join the ranks of his preferred accompaniment on the Road. It was a high honor, especially since Dean had only ever been responsible for the death of one Angel. Another of the Slayers – Alastair – had felled three in his service. But it was a reflection of their preferred methods, and Dean’s general popularity.

Alastair was confrontational. He liked absolute destruction of the beasts that dared threaten their trading vehicles, even if it meant the loss of some soldiers in the process. It was rumored that he liked to defile those he felled. Dean knew for a fact he had taken the wings of one, for they were now worn by the Empress at Court for ceremonial occasions.

Dean, however, preferred to keep his teams intact, at the cost of speed and efficiency in trading. He favored quiet travel that avoided attracting Angel attention, even if it was slower. He had had his group leave the Road on several occasions, and hide in the forests until danger passed, rather than confronting it. Generally, he only engaged in conflict insofar as necessary. It wasn’t that he didn’t hate those sons of bitches that haunted the skies as much as Alastair did, but he cared about his men more.

The talk of the town was that either Dean or Alastair would be selected by the Princess as the city’s leader, after her mother and father stood down. Balthazar, Ardus’ third Slayer, was perceived as a less savory option – his open enjoyment of drink and women had eroded the public’s confidence. In truth, Dean was every bit as bad in his penchant for both. But Balthazar was more visible in his vices. After his last mission, he’d performed a tightrope act on the walls surrounding the Princess’ private garden. She had discovered him when had attempted a cartwheel, and fallen in her roses.

As of yet, Dean hadn’t given much thought to how her choice would go. A selection as City leader usually entailed marriage, for the husband of the Princess (or Empress, as she would then become) would continue the sorceress’s line. It hadn’t always been the case that the two went hand-in-hand,   but the past generations of Empress (for, mysteriously, the offspring of the sorceress’ line was always female) had developed something of a custom. The citizens now referred to her selection of Lord Protector and her husband collectively as “her choice”, and the official announcement of a betrothal was treated as an announcement of Lordship too.

Dean wasn’t adverse to the idea of marrying the Princess – she was plenty fine to look at, and the idea of leadership appealed to him. But Lilith was young, and there was no imperative yet to compete for her affections. So he was content to focus on his captaincy of the soldiers on missions, and preserve life where possible.

Once the stablehand had fitted Dean with his kit, he donned his weapons. A dagger at his waist, and another at his thigh; throwing knives at his ankles; a shield at his back and a sword at his belt. He waited patiently while the hand – Chuck – cinched the final strap across his chest.

When he was done, Dean slapped him on the shoulder once and gave him a nervous smile.

“May God watch over you, sir.” Chuck’s voice was reedy and uncertain, as though he still could not believe he was entitled to such proximity to Dean.

“Thank you, Chuck. I’ll see you again soon.” Chuck blushed and stepped back, head bowed, while Dean clicked his tongue and lead Impala from the stable, mounting her when he reached the Citadel’s street.

Dean rode Impala down the cobbles to the city gate, where the wagons he and his men would accompany were waiting, along with his selected soldiers for the escort – fifteen in total. A small cluster of civilians were waiting too. They were those that had paid for safe passage between the cities. There were very few, as was to be expected. Many never left the city gates. Those that took the chance to travel with the soldiers did so out of desperation or foolishness – love, medical treatment or escape from bad debt were among the reasons usually prompting individuals to take the risk. Their carriage was protected with the same sigils that adorned the city walls. But the sigils did not always guarantee safe passage, and the travelers knew it. A few were shaking visibly.

Dean was greeted by his second-in-command, Rufus Turner, an older hunter, but one of the strongest in the Citadel’s history. Although not a Slayer, the man was respected as though he were one, and he would be rewarded handsomely upon his retirement for his services.

“Bad news. The scouts have reported back that the direct northern road is blocked. Angels everywhere.”

Dean cursed. He hated last minute changes to plans. “Is it blocked before the Blue Range path? We could turn off there and circle back to Etrea.”

“Yeah, it’s blocked by the river.”

“Damnit.”

“The Gorge has been clear since Spring. It might be our safest route.”

“From Angels, maybe, but with the rain it’ll be flooded. I’m not going that far off course just to turn back.”

“We could take the Eastern path from the Gorge? It sits higher on the Ranges.”

“Balthazar’s taken three loads through there in the past six months. And there was trouble on the last trip. It’ll be busy.”

Rufus sighed. “What do you say then, Captain? We’re running out of options.”

“Give me the map.”

Rufus pulled a leather scroll from the satchel attached to his stallion and spread it out on the ground in front of him and Dean. They both crouched down to stare at it, while the rest of the group bustled around them, making last minute adjustments to packs, and taking inventory. Rufus traced a path with a finger and muttered to himself.

“We might have to call off this trip, Captain, if you’re uncertain about the Gorge. I’m not seeing any other options.”

“It’s a guaranteed loss, Rufus. We’re not doing it.”

They fell into silence while Dean took in the contents of the map.

“What about the western path?”

Rufus traced the path with his finger. “To Rehin?”

“Yeah. There’s an old trader’s route that branches off it about three days in. It meets up with the Northern path on the eighth day. We’d add four extra days to our journey, but it should be quiet. It hasn’t been used since we found the northern route.”

Dean felt the weight of Rufus’ gaze upon him, and the veiled uncertainty in the man’s voice. “Are you sure it will be quiet, Dean?”

“There haven’t been any reports off the Western path for two months, and the same at the top part of the northern path. There’ll be a few days where we’ll be blind, but that’s better odds than the Gorge, don’t you think?”

“At least we’ll know what we’re facing at the Gorge.”

“If we didn’t have travelers with us, I’d say the Gorge, but I’m not willing to risk it knowing there’s activity. They’ll hear, for certain. And this is our last trade before the winter, Rufus. It has to be successful.”

Rufus nodded curtly. He was a good second, knowing when to disagree, and when to accept his orders. He folded the map up perfunctorily, and slid it back into his satchel. Glancing up back at Dean, his gaze was caught by something behind him and he smirked a little.

“It seems you’re required as an audience before we leave. I’ll notify the squad of the route.”

“Good. Thank you, Rufus.”

Rufus chuckled and his eyes flickered over Dean’s shoulder again. When Dean looked past him, he saw the same sight had caught the eyes of some of his group – Aidan and Creedy in particular, and they jostled and elbowed each other, grinning. Dean braced himself for the view, and carefully adjusted his vest before he turned. Despite the snickers, the sight that greeted him was unexpected.

The Princess Lilith, with her five ladies-in-waiting, stood patiently by the wagons. Lilith was charm and poise, and ramrod straight at the head of the little group. When he turned she gave a little nod of acknowledgment to indicate he should approach. Ruby, who had been delegated the back left position, grimaced as the horse she stood next to whickered and flicked its tail against her, so that the hair caught her across the mouth.

Casting a cautionary glance at his soldiers, who at once busied themselves with what were likely phantom tasks, Dean puffed his chest out and advanced, feigning confidence in light of his public audience. He didn’t have the chance to greet the Princess formally, with a bow, before she called to him across the square.

 “You honor our city with your courage, Slayer.”

“In service to my Empress, who brings the greatest honor to Ardus.” He bowed, fairly poorly, and heard Ruby snicker. “My life is at your service, Princess”

She smiled, lips closed but relaxed, and bowed her head. When he rose from the bow there was an awkward pause, and Dean swallowed audibly (for the square, it seemed, had suddenly gone quiet, and the milling citizens had not the manners to show deference for the exchange – they were staring openly). His eyes flickered to Lydia, who stood on the Princess’ left, and Dean’s right, directly behind her. Her face was implacable, but her eyes danced.

“Will you wear my favor when you serve our city?”

Dean faltered as he looked back to the Princess. “I… wear it in your colors?” He gestured to the black and red emblem emblazoned across his chest on the leather vest.

She giggled, as did her maids (quickly looking at each other to make sure this was the acceptable response). That was, except for Ruby, who sneered.

“No, Slayer,” Lilith trilled, smiling properly this time, revealing a set of perfect white teeth not possessed by any other woman in the kingdom aside from her mother:  “I mean my personal favor. Would you wear it?”

He looked at Ruby quizzically, but she smirked and looked away. Lydia, on the Princess’ other side, caught his gaze, and widened her eyes, nodding imperceptibly.

“Uh… yes. It would be an honor.”

She smiled wider and stepped forward. Dean figured it was going to some sort of lady-trinket. Maybe a ring or a scarf. Whatever it was, he’d had to shove it into his saddlebag for safekeeping once on the Road. Woe betide to him should he lose something bestowed by the Princess herself.

However Lilith kept advancing, keeping her eyes locked on his, until her face was a mere inch from Dean’s own and he could smell breath. It smelt like lilacs. She was small and Dean had to duck his head to look at her. As he did, she turned her head ever so slightly to his right and brushed a soft kiss against his jaw line.

Dean froze, completely unaware of the requirements of social decorum at that moment (he had never been much for them, but as far as he was aware, this kind of proximity to the Princess wasn’t detailed in the rule book).

He felt her smile against his cheek and she leaned forward further to whisper in his ear: “Bring my favor back to me, Dean, when you return.” Her breath made his cheek tingle, and he restrained the urge it to run his fingernails across the itch.

It would have only been a second, but with her proximity, time seemed to pass slowly and awkwardly, and Dean’s better judgment overcame him. He felt his mouth twitch and then the words tumbled out: “Heh… yeah. Sure…”

She withdrew gracefully, smiling as though he’d whispered back the proper flirtatious response. There was a peal of giggling from behind her again, and she dropped her gaze, as though embarrassed, though there was no hint of a blush on her cheeks.

“Stay safe.”

“My Princess.” He bowed, this time a little better and deeper, and by the time he righted himself she had turned and was _sashaying_ (for there was no other word for it) back to her maids, whose eyes were wide with excitement at the promise of secrets to be shared later. Dean was utterly certain every aspect of his behavior would be deconstructed with hyperactive frivolity, and perhaps some venom on Ruby’s part. Oh, how torn she would be now that Dean was seemingly in the Princess’ favor. The thought was enough to buoy him, even as he stood in front of the gates to the Road, and he flicked a smirk at her as he whirled and departed for his men. Her responding glower would keep him warm in the cold nights to come.

Aiden and Creedy, now accompanied by Ezra, Victor and Isaac, had gathered by the wagon during the duration of the conversation. Dean steadied himself to bark out orders and save face, but he was interrupted by a far more authoritative yell than he would have been able to summon, still feeling embarrassed from the eyes of the City upon him.

“What ya idjits doin’? Don’t y’all have somewhere to be this mornin’?”

The group started and at once bustled back to their tasks, except for Rufus who stepped forward and clapped the man who had uttered the instruction on the back.

“We’re almost ready to go, Bobby.”

“Better be,” Bobby grumbled, shrugging off the touch, “got other things to do today besides cater for you wallflowers.”

The men, still within earshot, hung their heads and busied themselves more properly with their tasks. Dean grinned at their deference and mimicked Rufus in advancing on the man and clapping him on the shoulder too.

This time Bobby appeared less displeased with the gesture, although he was still terse.

“I mean it, boy. No special favors. You want the gates open before mid-mornin’, that’s when they’re openin’. And if you’re not ready, you can wait here for the next load.”

“Yessir.” Dean whistled one high note, and Impala whickered and walked to him. He took hold of her reigns and grinned as he saw a little affection in Bobby’s eyes when he reached forward and patted the horse brusquely on the nose. “See? Ready to go.”

Bobby grumbled again and shoved his hands back in the pockets of his breeches.

“You take care of ‘em. And you stay safe.”

“You know I will.”

Bobby nodded gruffly, and hit Dean on the arm with more force than necessary. “Gates open in five minutes. Be ready.”

Dean nodded curtly, and mounted Impala as soon as Bobby’s back was turned. He watched as the man limped back to the gates, where a few utterly terrified squires wilted under his stern instructions. It would be their job to swing the gates open, leaving the city vulnerable momentarily to infiltration. Since Bobby’s retirement from the Road and his installation as City Watchman, there had never been a breach of the City’s walls upon entry or exit. Nor had the sigils that decorated the Citadel’s walls and protected its inhabitants from the Angels been allowed to peel or fester under the light on the sun on the City walls. Bobby was one of the few who’d managed to retire from the Road, and one of fewer still who were able to properly leave it behind.  As such, he’d been installed as commander of Ardus’ watchtower, and he lead a group of perpetually terrified boys who hadn’t made the cut for soldier’s training, in manning the towers and policing the city gates. Bobby was one of only two with access to the keys that unlocked the Citadel’s gates, and he was required to certify new entrants. In addition, he alone took on the job of monitoring the sigils that decorated the city walls, ensuring that the weather did not erode them to such an extent that the City was placed in peril. He was the only non-soldier to breach the City boundary, and would spend hours every month beyond the wall, protecting the city from threats with his paintbrush, while archers watched carefully from the ramparts for Angelus.

The squad was assembled at the gates, and lined up ready to leave when Sam finally appeared.

His lateness was not an insult. It was his and Dean’s way. Other soldiers had lovers and family who might wait with them for several hours as they prepared for the Road, and would watch the Wall every day until they returned. They would wait until they were inevitably left to cry there, when their loved ones did not return.

Dean preferred the send-off to be less dramatic, ever clinging to the certainty that he would return home again. They played at it now, with Sam merely walking up beside his mare and staring at the waiting gates.

“How long?”

Dean kept his eyes on the gates, swallowing carefully and keeping his breathing even in anticipation of the panic that would wash over them when he first returned to the Road.

“Two weeks. Three at most.”

“You sure?”

“Have to. The weather’ll get worse if we wait, and we’ll have to take Winter in Etrea.”

Sam nodded curtly, and idly fingered at the mare’s mane.

“Keep well.”

Dean nodded and quirked a smile at his younger brother.

“Same to you.”

Sam grinned feebly back at him.

“My room is off limits by the way.”

“What?”

“To your lady. If she’s going to ‘fall asleep’ in our house again, she better damn be doing it in your bed.” Dean playfully emphasized the words with a grin, to let Sam know it was a joke – mostly.

“Dean!” Sam spluttered but he was interrupted by Bobby’s yell across the square: “Standby!”

There was a massive creak as the gates were pulled forward, the boys heaving on the ropes and chanting for each tug. As gates were slowly opened the enormity of the road was revealed to Dean. He didn’t wait for the gates to fully open to advance – he was to lead the way and the longer he waited, the more time his men would have to stew in nervousness, and the longer he left the city vulnerable. He clicked his tongue and nudged Impala forward, casting a quick glance back to Sam: “see you soon.”

Sam smiled faintly and hung his head after Dean had turned his back. He didn’t look back as the Gates were closed behind him. As always, it was not a farewell.

…

It took Castiel around three days to lose his mind. The endless silence of his home began to press on him and squeeze around him, constricting his organs and pushing the air from his lungs. At one point, he forgot how to breathe, and at another he almost dropped to the ground mid-flight. Sometimes, he’d be overcome with shivering. But it wasn’t from the cold. No number of furs could stave it off.

He left on the fourth day. He took his bow, and two knives, as well as a small satchel with a waterskin and some dried meat. The rest he left for his brothers and sisters, in the spot where they were accustomed to retrieving the kills that he left for them – on a feeding post he had erected around one mile into the woods. Wrapped in his warmest fur – for he had no idea how long he would be gone and only then did he cast his eye once around his small home. It felt empty already, even prior to his intended absence.

That was the final push – all it took. Ten minutes later, he was flying low over the forest, with nothing but a grim expression and the hope that whatever he was doing, it would dispel the sense of urgency that spread roots throughout his belly, and grew outwards, until he felt like it would pierce his skin and strangle him from the outside.

…

** 2013 **

Castiel spoke until the entire room slept. They had remained wide-eyed as he had detailed the Fall, and attentive, although entirely silent as he described his life in the forest and Dean’s in the Citadel. Slowly though, and against their will, they had dropped off, their eyes flickering with the effort of holding open their weight until the last second when Castiel had heard their breathing change and witnessed their limbs drop into relaxation.

Bobby’s head rested precariously on his fist, which was balanced upon his elbow upon the edge of the seat. Sam and Jessica, by contrast, had fallen asleep against one another – Sam angled towards the other edge of the seat, and Jessica leaning against his side, with her head dropping onto his shoulder.

Castiel watched them for a long time, entirely aware that their steady breathing was not replicated in the kitchen, where Dean still waited. Even from the sitting room, Castiel could hear the thud of his heart, at a slightly accelerated rate that indicated he was still in a position of full consciousness.

It might have been several hours before Castiel found the nerve to call upon him. He had hoped Dean would approach him, even if it were to leave, and retire to his own lodgings (for the scent here indicated that only Sam was a resident here). Still, even after the others had long since fallen asleep, there was no sound of movement at all from the kitchen to indicate that Dean intended to vacate the area.

“Greg.”

Castiel kept his voice soft and low, so as to avoid waking the sleeping three, but loud enough that he was sure that Dean, being conscious and obviously alert, would hear it. He was rewarded by the sound of a very quiet intake of breath, but no more from the area. When there was no other response for some time, he spoke again.

“Greg, I know you’re awake.”

The sound of Dean’s heart thudding became more discernible, but there was no indication of movement from the kitchen area. Eventually Castiel whispered out into the darkness, once last time.

“Greg, I’m going to return to the shower room for a few moments. Please do not be alarmed at the sound of my movement.”

There was no response from the kitchen. Slowly, and carefully to avoid letting his wings brush the sleeping companions, Castiel inched his way through the darkness to the room. He made sure to shut the door with an audible enough click that it would be heard by Dean in the kitchen. Within a minute, he heard the sound of a scrape from the kitchen and the door to the sitting room opening and closing.

When he returned to the kitchen, he knew what he expected to see, although it did not stopper the sense of disappointment. Dean was gone.

 

 


	5. Swallow Your Voice

** CHAPTER FOUR **

** 2013 **

Castiel remained awake during the night, his weak Grace finding the energy to stopper the human sensation of tiredness and the creep of sleepfulness from infiltrating his system. The party slept soundly, aside from the intermittent snores of Bobby from the left side of the couch. Over the course of the night, Sam and Jessica became a little more intertwined, with Sam’s arm finding its way around her shoulders, and her nuzzling her cheek into his chest. When they began to shiver in the early hours of the morning, Castiel located some blankets from the sleeping quarters that were situated near the shower room, and draped them across their bodies. He watched them carefully until their light shivers stopped, and they fell back into deep sleep.

The earlier part of the morning he spent outside, his wings spread at their full span, allowing them the luxury of a few gusts of nighttime air through their feathers. The sensation was a warming one, despite the low temperature, and Castiel found himself giving a small smile at the feeling of contact, however insignificant, against his person. The soft touches of the wind reminded him of the feel of Dean’s trembling fingers against his wings, as they ghosted through his feathers in tentative and nervous exploration. And the thought ignited memories that kept him warm and tingling until just before dawn, even in the cold.

He abandoned the activity when sunlight breached the horizon and he witnessed the first stirrings of the modern world around him. Knowing from Sam and Jessica’s explanations in the day previously that his presence would be considered bizarre and frightening (maybe even more so than in his time), he made sure to return indoors before he was seen. The deprivation of the sun’s rays was disappointing to him, however, so he positioned himself on the ground of the sitting room, with his wings spread, to allow the beams to filter through the glass and onto his feathers.

Bobby was the first to stir. When he caught sight of Jessica and Sam’s circumstance he rolled his eyes and grumbled, casting a knowing look at Castiel. Castiel smiled at being brought in on the joke, but he looked away quickly, uncertain of how to extend the camaraderie past the initial amusement. When Bobby stood, he made little care to do so without disturbing his sleeping companions, instead dragging the blanket that Castiel had laid across them with him, which triggered their waking. They fumbled momentarily, wiping against bleary eyes and glaring at Bobby, before they realized the intimacy of their circumstance and sprung apart, blushing again. Jessica raced into the kitchen almost immediately, and Sam excused himself quickly to the shower room almost simultaneously. Bobby met Cas full in the eyes again, and groused, in his unfamiliar language but with a familiar lazy twang: “Those idjits are like that all the time.” 

There was a small slam in the kitchen in response.

Bobby ignored it and shuffled towards the rom. A few moments later, Castiel heard a few clicks and the sound of running water. He stayed where he was until Bobby returned, blinking blearily around the room: “where’s Greg?”

Castiel didn’t bother to look up from where he was seated: “he left, early this morning.”

Bobby huffed and then coughed, the effort displacing phlegm in his lungs audibly. “Don’t worry about him. He’s an idjit.”

Castiel pursed his lips and looked away, while Bobby rubbed at his beard absently. He huffed for a few seconds and then busied himself locating his hat behind the seat, which he had lost over the course of the night.

A higher voice broke the silence: “Cas?”

Jessica peered out from the kitchen: “did you sleep well?”

“I did not sleep.”

“Oh.” She paused, looking worriedly at the floor where the blanket Castiel had covered them with lay rumpled.

“I’m sorry that we fell asleep. I didn’t even...”

Castiel smiled to silence her.

“I understand, Jessica. There is no need to apologize. I am happy to continue, if you wish, when you have completed your necessary activities.”

She grinned properly at him, far less inhibited than mere moments before, and he was treated to the sight of her even white teeth that reminded him, uncomfortably of Lilith’s. There was no gleam of a promise, however, that she intended to bite with them, and so the terrifying comparison disintegrated as quickly as it had arisen. “That’s be great, Cas. Or...” she paused, suddenly thoughtful, “is Castiel more appropriate? I mean...”

“I prefer Cas.” Castiel smiled again at her, and let his wings shuffle a little on the floor, stretching them out to avoid their becoming irritated with stagnancy. His Grace would usually remedy such troubles, but it was still uncooperative and inconsistent in its efforts and he had not yet managed to manipulate it into carrying such tasks out subconsciously.

When Jessica caught sight the feathers in the light, her mouth dropped open in a small “o”.

“Wow Cas, they’re magnificent.” Castiel blinked and said nothing, but he felt them give a small twitch and preen at the compliment – it was a sensation and movement that catapulted him momentarily into a fond memory,

She inched closer, letting her eyes run across their expanse almost hungrily, but with an intellectual rather than physical fascination. Her hand even commenced to reach out a little before she caught herself, and blushed. “Sorry.”

Castiel smiled and didn’t answer, and she withdrew bashfully and blushing to the kitchen once again, with an embarrassed abruptness.

Bobby ignored them both and limped across the sitting room and through the doorway, where he commenced hammering on the door to the shower room. “Hurry up, Keith. You’re not the only one who needs to take a piss!”

Moments later, Sam stumbled back into the sitting room (face bright red), where he visibly relaxed when it was evident Jessica was out of sight.

“Good morning, Keith”, Castiel momentarily stumbled over the name before he recovered himself, although Sam did not appear to notice. Instead, he hurriedly brushed down his tangled hair and grinned at Castiel.

“Good morning Cas... or Castiel now?”

“I prefer Cas.”

“Oh... good. Uh, how did you sleep?”

Bobby snorted from the shower room. Sam looked back, brow furrowing. When he turned back to Castiel, his expression was quizzical: “Did...?”

Castiel made no response,  and Sam looked down at his feet, before he shrugged his shoulders a few times and shook his head quickly, as if jolting himself out of the remnants of his sleep.

“We... uh... are we hearing more about your story today?”

Castiel nodded and let his wings stretch in the sun again. “Yes, when you are prepared, and when Greg has returned.”

Sam’s eyes fell on Castiel’s wings, but unlike Jessica he made no comment. The same fascination was there, however, and Castiel was sure he would be a topic of their discussion later. There was an awkward silence until Bobby returned to the sitting room, the sound of running water and an aggressive kind of exhale mixed with a breathy kind of scream and a loud rattle following him. When Castiel looked up in shock, Bobby guffawed: “Nothin’ to worry about Cas. The plumbing here is shit.”

Castiel nodded curtly and looked back to the window, where he could now witness wagons similar to that in which he had found himself in yesterday, passing on a grey kind of road before him. He watched them with a kind of casual fascination, but no great curiosity. Even from his position inside the home, he could smell the mixture of fuels that were used to power them. They were concentrated and bizarre scents, but not outside his field of recognition. Like the “waves”, Sam had spoken of yesterday. He understood that humans had found a way to harness another aspect of their natural world, this time for the purposes of transportation. It was impressive, and he allowed himself a small private grin, which was really no more than a twitch of the upper left corner of his lip.

Sam turned to Bobby and spoke lower: “Greg left.”

“Yeah? What else is new?”

Sam spluttered.  “He’s kinda freaked out, Mike!”

“He’s an idjit. Leave him be. If he wants to miss an audience with an Angel of the Lord, let him. I’m not his mother.”

Sam breathed out in an exasperated way and turned to the kitchen, where there was a clattering sound as Jessica moved about within it.

Castiel cleared his throat to attract their attention: “Is Greg often so hostile?”

Sam turned on the spot to meet Castiel’s gaze and pursed his lips before he responded: “He’s... he’s kind of a messed up guy, Cas. Don’t take it personally.”

Castiel felt a sharp stab of urgency in his gut and the somber tone in Sam’s voice, but he forced his voice to remain casually neutral, remembering the tactic having been employed by Dean once during their time together: “what does ‘messed up’ mean?”

“Uh...” Sam looked imploringly to Bobby, who rolled his eyes before he answered for Sam: “He’s got some problems. Likes his drink. We don’t know more than that. Don’t wanna, to be honest.”

“You are... not well acquainted, then?”

Bobby rolled his eyes again and turned away. Sam took the answer: “Barely know the guy. One of the engineers on the team investigating the area where we found you knows him. He keeps to himself. Yesterday in the tunnels was the most energetic I’ve ever seen him in months. He might’ve left town. I think he’s got some family problems.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“Can you contact him please?”

Sam’s eyebrows twitched and he cocked his head in a silent question.

“With your phone,” Castiel supplied, and he dropped his gaze meaningfully to the bulge in Sam’s pocket.

Sam blushed and stuttered for a moment, looking at Castiel incredulously, before his fingers twitched over the phone contained there and he visibly relaxed: “Why?”

“I would like him to be present, before I continue. Please.”

Sam took several moments to respond, during which time his fingers twisted awkwardly at his sides.

“Uh... yeah, sure Cas. Anything you’d like.”

He withdrew the device from his breeches slowly and pressed a few of the numbered circles. From the floor, Castiel heard the trill of a few notes emit from the top end of the device and the ring of the radio waves emanating throughout the room.

The notes repeated for some time before the sound changed, and Dean’s voice was audible across the line: “Yeah?”

“Greg, where are you?”

“What does it matter?”

“Cas... he’s asking for you.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“Why?” Dean’s voice was gruff and low, almost as if he understood at that moment that Castiel could hear him, and was attempting to avoid it being so.

“Uh,...” Sam glanced at Castiel, seeking counsel. Castiel widened his eyes and dropped his gaze back to the ground. He knew he was being entirely unhelpful, but the gruff reminder of Dean’s aggression towards him was enough to stun him back into silence. Even if it hadn’t, Castiel didn’t yet have a plausible explanation to express a fascination with Dean that would not drive him further away.

“I don’t know, man. But... he wants you to be here.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?”

There was another silence.

“Greg, we’ve got an Angel of the Lord here spilling heavenly secrets and you’re _busy_?”

There was a long silence before Dean answered. “Look, I just... I can’t ok?”

“Why? What’s the problem?”

There was a long pause that Castiel knew betrayed a falsity in the answer.

“You saw! He was all over me!”

“He was confused, Greg, it’s fine now.”

Dean didn’t respond, but there was the sound of rough breathing from the device, and a muffled curse.

“Please? Come on.”

Sam hung onto the phone helplessly for a few moments, until he was rescued. Jessica stomped out of the kitchen and seized the phone from Sam, who surrendered it without protest when her hand clasped around his.

“Greg, it’s Jess.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“I noticed you left your keys here last night. That means your car is still in the lot.”

There was a longer silence.

“I don’t really care why you decided you’d rather walk to your place than drive your car. But, if you don’t get your ass here in the next hour, I will key that stupid thing with _its own keys_. Got that?”

There was a sputtered protest on the other end of the line.

“One hour, or the Chevy gets it.” She flipped the two edges of the phone closed quickly and Castiel heard the muffled sound of Dean’s surroundings cut out.

She grinned at Castiel and Sam proudly, before proceeding back to the kitchen: “Who’s hungry?” Sam’s eyes tracked the movement long after she had passed through the threshold and out of his sight.

...

It took Dean an hour and a half to arrive. Jessica didn’t make good on her threat, but instead sat with Castiel, Sam and Bobby in the sitting room, this time across from Castiel, although throwing a few glances at Sam when she thought he wasn’t looking.

In the interim, Sam answered Castiel’s questions as to his own circumstances, and those miscellaneous queries he had about the nature of their modern world. If any of the group thought Castiel’s particular fascination with Sam’s past was odd, they made no mention of it.

Sam and Dean were not related. In fact they grew up in different “states”, as Sam called them. States in the United States of America, a country across the sea from that which they inhabited now. Sam’s parents were Samuel and Deanna Campbell, and he had a brother called Christian and a sister called Gwen. The family was not wealthy, and Sam had carried out the majority of his schooling on scholarship, including the years he spent at ‘”college” – Stanford – the same as Jessica. He stubbornly avoided looking at her when he spoke of it. He was unmarried, which he insisted was not unusual for a man of his age in the modern world. In fact, he had carried on a serious relationship for two years with a woman named Sarah when they were at College together, before he had moved to England to continue with his “postgraduate work”. Jessica’s face went stony when he mentioned Sarah with particular fondness and there was a pained silence when he finished describing her for Castiel, before Castiel asked another question of him.

In many ways, Sam was still the man that Dean had described to Castiel – he was fascinated with books and learning, and largely disinterested by material occupations. He was bright and lively, especially when he discussed his areas of study with Castiel, gesticulating wildly and lighting up with an energy and brilliance that was indescribable, even to Castiel’s vast range of human experience.

It was not only Castiel who is captivated by his easygoing and energetic nature. As Sam spoke, he drew the attention of Jessica too, on the seat beside Castiel. Castiel noted, with amusement, that she failed to look away from Sam, even when he ceased to speak and deferred to Bobby for a more technical explanation of their occupation. Her interest was only broken by the knock at the door that marked Dean’s arrival, and it was broken then suddenly and accompanied by a sudden awkwardness and self- monitoring that saw her stubbornly avoid looking at Sam when he made to answer it.

Whether such erratic behavior continued into the afternoon, however, went unnoticed by Castiel upon Dean’s arrival.

Dean was stormy, and he carried out an aggressive conversation at the doorway with Sam for a few moments before Castiel intervened, loathed to hear Dean’s voice used so angrily. “Greg, please sit.”

At his words, Dean stiffened, but obediently moved himself across the room to the seat, where he placed himself beside Bobby. As with their last meeting, he avoided Castiel’s gaze, but this time there was more distress in his posture, as his fingers thrummed insistently against his thigh and his ears went red.

Sam pursed his lips at Dean’s coolness, but avoided comment as he walked stiffly across the room and seated himself beside Castiel.

“You, uh, ready to go Cas?”

Castiel nodded and kept his gaze on his hands.

“Yes. Thank you for being here.”

He didn’t bother to mention Dean by name, but he _hmphd_ regardless, and Castiel heard him lean back against the soft seat and cross his arms.

Castiel didn’t speak until he forced himself to look up again. While he kept his gaze on Jessica and Bobby, he couldn’t help but seek out Dean in his peripheral vision. When he did so, he took care to keep a quiver out of his voice when he witnessed the muscle in Dean’s jaw jump again and his face stiffen. Eventually Castiel had to look away, and lower his gaze to his hands, where he could avoid the thunder in Dean’s face, and remember him lighter and carefree and watching Castiel with adoration. It was a small comfort, in the strange place that he found himself now.

...

** 1424 **

“You’re in” Garth proclaimed proudly.

Rufus shot Garth a dangerous glare from his position on the right flank of the travelling party: “Garth. That’s impudent.”

Garth smiled goofily, missing the sharpness in his tone: “Sorry. You’re so in, _Captain_.”

Dean, who was riding beside him, on rest from his position as point of the formation, hid his laughter from Rufus behind a poorly-acted cough.

Rufus glared at him too. “That attitude’s going to have to go if you’re going to rule the City, Dean.”

“That’s Captain to you, Rufus.” But Dean winked at him, to show the reprimand was not a serious one. Even if it had been, he doubted Rufus would have cared. He was a tough one. Even though Rufus glowered, Dean made nothing of it. They’d been riding mostly in silence and tension for five straight days. Now on an open plain, they had more chance to relax. With the skies so clear, they’d have plenty of notice if Angels were nearby. He was up for a bit of relaxation.

Garth punched him on the shoulder lightly and chuckled. “You’re the luckiest guy in Ardus, you know that?”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it, my friend. It’s all about knowing how to treat your Lady.” Dean lounged back atop Impala, stretching out the muscles in his core that were stiffening from being so curled in upon themselves. He threw Garth a lazy and amused wink before righting himself, and giving his girl a thankful rub on the neck for tolerating his jostling.

“Oh yeah? What’s that? You got some kind of special maneuver?”

“Maybe.” He grinned and threw Rufus a knowing smirk. Rufus glowered and let his horse drop back behind the front group.

Garth chuckled and ignored it. “Yeah, I got a few of those too.”

“You _do_?” There were catcalls from the back of the group.

“Ooooh yeah, works every time. You know that serving maid at the Brown Bear Inn? ”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Garth’d her.”

“You… _Garth’d_ here?” Dean repeated the phrase with incredulity.

“Sure did. I’ve got tricks.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a growing smile.

“How you go about it?” He kept his question as serious as possible, although his voice cracked at the end, and he had to press his lips together around it to keep from hysterics.

“Well, there’s multiple parts. Some of it just can’t be taught. And it helps I look good in a uniform.”

At that, Dean couldn’t restrain himself, and he leaned over Impala’s mane and muffled his laughter – _that_ serving maid was Jo, his best childhood friend (besides Sam, that was). She and her whip-tongued mother Ellen ran the alehouse, and he didn’t doubt for a moment Jo wouldn’t tolerate any kind of weak pick up from passing soldiers. Those that did try were liable to find their faces in the pigs’ slop bucket later. Garth hadn’t chosen the subject of his fictional encounter well.

“Whaaat? I do!” Isaac snorted and the group properly lost it then, although they, like Dean, took care to keep the sound muffled.

Even Rufus bit his lip at Garth’s protests: “What, I did Garth her!”

They were lost in fits of silent laughter, with the occasional errant snort, until Dean thought he saw a quiet shadow to his right, one hundred meters up the Road. His entire body went alert at once, and before he even held up his hand to his men to signal that they should stop, he heard them quiet behind him. The group halted and Rufus cautiously advanced to his side, still atop his own steed.

“What’d you see, Captain?”

It wasn’t so much seeing as feeling, but Dean rarely let on that many of his near misses were based upon intuition, rather than sharp eyesight or hearing. His men wouldn’t buy that kind of flimsy instruction, even though it had saved them more times than they could count.

There was rustling in the carriage cabin behind them. Presumably, its inhabitants thought the stopping of their movement meant it was time for a bathroom break.

“Rufus, go inform our passengers they’re not to leave the carriage. We’re moving them off the Road. Get them to stay quiet and make some space for us. Quickly.” Dean kept his voice low and even, so that no listeners could detect the quiet hint of panic that was beginning to thrum through the group.

Rufus whirled around and trotted silently back. He whispered to the carriage’s occupants through a small space in the wood left for enabling their breathing in the cramped space. There were a few audible murmurs and gasps from inside and Rufus rapped on the wall sharply but softly as a warning.

While Rufus was speaking with their travelers, Dean raised his arms in signal to his men, raising them both in Ls and then extending them straight in front of him towards the Road. He then returned them to their original position and then extended one to each side. He held them horizontally, palms facing forward and fingers fixed together.

The reaction was quick and efficient. The left side of his men peeled off to the left. A few dismounted, and raced back to the food wagons, taking the mares which pulled them and dragging them by the bridle and edging them carefully and quietly towards the tree line.

Those on the right at once moved to steer the carriage in the other direction, to a smoother bit of path where the Road met the tree line most easily. Rufus dismounted and stood there, waving his men forward with his eyes still on the spot ahead of them on the Road.

Dean stayed on point, flanked now by Garth and Aiden, his fastest and lightest riders. Were a disturbance to arise, their purpose would be to ride at full speed away from the site of their passengers and take whatever lay in wait with them. It would give the wagons a chance to get away, and the men an opportunity to cover themselves under angel-proofed tents, or in the passenger carriage.

It was rare to invoke such measures – if they were quiet no creature would be interested in the party. But there had been occasion where it had been necessary. If the creatures were not lead away, they were liable to fixate upon the Angel-proofed carriage that housed the civilians. The walls of the structure may be impenetrable to the creatures, but they were not entirely secure. A smart creature with the right utensils could crush the thing and attack its inhabitants. It was better to lead them away.

When the carriage was off the Road, Rufus signaled to Dean and remounted his steed, keeping her at a steady walk as he approached them.

“Are we staying on the Road, boss?”

Dean kept his eyes ahead of him.

“Yes. You two” he indicated towards Rufus and Garth “should be ready to go South. We’ll go north-east if we can. Weapons at the ready.”

Carefully, the men inched their swords from their scabbards, trying to avoid the ringing sound that usually accompanied the drawing of their blades. Dean’s weapon, Devil’s Trap, he held loose at his side, away from Impala’s carefully covered flanks, ready to swing upwards to surprise any attacker. The others followed suit, letting their arms rest rather than exhausting themselves by holding the heavy blades forwards in wait.

“What do we do now?” Garth asked nervously. It was the first time he’d been put on point when the wagons had had to leave the Road, although he knew the answer from his training.

Rufus glared at him, a reprimand clearly already composed in his head for later - if there was a later.

Dean quieted him with a quick glance, before he turned his eyes back to the Road, and readied his posture for a quick start. He swallowed, smothering the hint of bile that hung in his throat. “Now we wait. And stay quiet.”

…

Castiel had been following the travelling party for two days. He’d happened upon them quite unexpectedly, for they’d been moving with expert quietness along a Road he had thought long since abandoned by Ardus’ Guard. The particular spot on the Road where he had happened upon them had once been the site of a great massacre that Castiel himself had been a party to. There had been no human survivors.

He wasn’t sure of the purpose that compelled him to follow. Perhaps it was merely the comfort of falling back into his old routine, and the challenge of revisiting his silent tracking skills, which had long been out of practice. Perhaps it was merely to usurp his usual routine before winter came.

Still, he had followed, without really questioning what he was doing, and observed the travelling party. It was a large group, although much smaller than the parties Castiel remembered seeing in years past. The Citadel had once seen fit to send small armies to protect food supplies, but recently the trend had turned towards smaller, more silent groups.

The group was lead by a man much younger than Castiel was used to seeing, with light brown hair and a stocky physique. His face was delicate, still somewhat childlike in its appearance. He might have only been twenty-two or twenty-three. Despite his youthfulness, it was immediately obvious why the young man was in charge of such a group, despite the presence of clearly older and more experienced soldiers. Across the man’s chest, in a leather armor worn by most of his party, was emblazoned the mark of one who had achieved the supreme soldier’s accomplishment – the man had felled an Angel by his own hand. He was a Slayer.

Castiel was familiar with Slayers – he had come across many in his years protecting the Road, and he knew they were highly skilled and courageous. Very few soldiers could hold off an attacking Angelus, let alone fell one when it had taken to assault. Once set upon, chances of survival for any human were slim. Generally, escape was only ensured by staying out of reach of the creatures and utilizing the protection of sigils and distractions. But felling an Angel could only be achieved in close proximity – the hide was thick and usually required direct assault to penetrate. Long range weapons were not quick enough to follow the sharp, erratic movements of the creatures, and glanced off their steely exterior more often than not.

The mark of the Slayer meant that this young man had achieved a virtual impossibility for a human – he had defied the laws of nature and defeated the Goliath when he was but a David.

Over the days Castiel observed the party, however, it became clear to him that the mark of the Slayer was only one of the reasons that the man had been given such a position of responsibility. He was tireless in his devotion to the safety of his group, and cunning in his management of them. His men were attentive to his every word, and only his second-in-command - a quietly powerful much older man with magnificent dark skin - dared to challenge his authority. But even he did so with a deference and caution.

The young man was devoted. Unlike other Captains Castiel had seen in his years observing the Road, the man frequently placed himself in utmost danger. He nearly almost rode point on the Road, or took up the rear – keeping a wary eye out for trackers. When he rested, he did so atop his mount, rather than retiring to one of the wagons that housed the Citadel’s travelers. At night, even when he was not on watch, he kept a wary eye on the forest, and slept with his hand on his weapon and a twitch that indicated he had barely passed out of consciousness.

But for all his caution, he was careful with his party too. He made sure the travelers were regularly checked on, and kept his soldiers calm and carefree. On many occasions, Castiel had seen him make comment to one of his riders and provoke laughter. He would laugh with them, and seem entirely at ease, until he rode ahead or behind them, and his expression changed back to a steely determination.

He was careful too to care for the steed which he rode. When they broke for the evening, he was attended to her hydration and feeding before his own needs. On occasion, when rarely out of sight of his men, he let his forehead rest in her mane and stroked her tenderly, murmuring against her and calming her nerves at the odd calls and snaps that emanated from the forest in the nighttime. Unlike the other horses, he let her graze freely, without restraining her against a tree. Castiel noted, with amusement, that she dutifully arrived for her rider whenever he summoned her, with a soft three-note whistle.

It fascinated Castiel, to see such a young soul with such unselfish disregard for his own well-being. It was not a fault of humanity that the young tended toward self-absorption – Castiel understood it was a natural tendency that was rarely negated until human reproduction forced a reassessment of priority. Still, to see it manifested in one so young was intriguing – he found himself wondering as to how the young man had acquired such awareness and carefulness.

The thought plagued him for several days as he followed the travelling party. His pursuit was largely redundant, since the group was careful to avoid attracting any Angels in the area – they would not likely need his protection, as they may have had in the old days. The one time they had been forced into alert, and had left the Road had been when Castiel himself had not been careful enough in his concealment, and the young man had noticed his presence ahead of them. The group had remained stationary for several hours, and the man had thoroughly combed the area stealthily and silently with a few of his men, before he cleared the party to continue travelling.

It was difficult work, with such an alert leader, to follow them. And Castiel knew not why he did, other that out of convenience that he had happened upon them, and his lack of interest in returning home.

It was the most fortuitous impulsive decision he had ever experienced.

On the sixth day he had followed the group, they settled for the night under the cover of a less dense patch of trees on the side of the Road. As was their custom, a comb of the area was performed and it was declared safe (Castiel knew it was devoid of Angels for one mile at least, after he carefully performed his own check). There were some Angelus another mile or so away, but Castiel was sure that the group’s silent practices would keep them safe from attracting attention. Still he kept a watchful eye – ready to provide a distraction if need be.

The young man had settled his group, and combed the area himself again, after the preliminary search was done. He had performed watch for a large part of the night, until his second-in-command insisted upon relieving him, and he (resentfully) curled against a large boulder at the border of where the group was settled, by the remnants of the fire they had extinguished before nightfall. He fell asleep almost instantly though (no doubt wrecked with exhaustion) and only stayed awake long enough to position his covered feet into the dying coals of the fire. Castiel wondered at the innocence in his face when he slept, as though he were but a boy on first trip on the Road.

The traveler that exited the carriage was quiet and didn’t raise an alert. She was noted by a soldier who stood watch at its entrance, but he let her pass when she gestured embarrassedly at the tree line. The solider nodded curtly and let her through. She walked quickly and with purpose outside the patrolled perimeter and into the darker depths. Castiel followed her carefully on foot, in order to ensure she remained safe without supervision. Given the male soldier’s embarrassment, he assumed she had come to relieve herself and had declined an escort.

She looked back furtively behind her several times on her short trip, and her alertness made the hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck prickle. She was more focused on pursuit from the campground than the waiting forest. Modesty was one thing, but her rigid caution… it put him on alert.

She stopped only fifty or so meters from the campground and checked around her once more. Satisfied she was alone, she squatted in the clearing, and fumbled with her robes. Castiel withdrew his eyes for a few moments, until the sound of trickling water ended. Slowly she rose, still adjusting within her robes. And then she smiled.

Castiel’s heart was pounding, thudding against his chest with instinct that _something was wrong_. Moments later, that instinct was proven correct.

From her robes, she withdrew something. It was small, and Castiel could not see it. By the time he realized what it was, it was too late. The woman struck the object in her hand across her other, and a moment later a light flared to life in the clearing. She contemplated it only for a second, as though sensing Castiel was near, before dropping it to the ground where the light flared to life with unnatural speed, invigorated by what Castiel now realized was a substance that she had poured there deliberately. Then, she began to scream.

It was long, shrill and piercing and it carved through the silent night like the sharpest blade. Even as Castiel stretched his wings and hurtled forwards towards her, trying to seal his hand over her mouth to stopper her cry, he knew it was too late. The sound rung in his ears and echoed through the sky.

Moments later, it was met by a shrill return cry through the night. The howl of the Angelus. They were coming.

There were yells back at the camp and a scuffle as two men, clearly having been dispatched raced towards her through the darkness. Castiel rushed backwards with the woman in his grasp, keeping his hand secured over her mouth. She struggled a little against his hold, but not out of fear, he suspected. She was not yet done with her task and the grip of an obsessive kind of madness to end it.

The men arrived at the fire and batted at it with the cloaks they held in their hands. It did nothing to quell the flames, which ate away at the dry ground around them with a supernatural ferocity. They yelled in panic to one another and gestured back towards the campsite, before turning and running back towards the camp area, where the yells and squeals of panic of the civilians were not being properly smothered by the remaining guard.

When they left, Castiel whirled the woman around to face him. She bit and licked at the hand he still held over her mouth, which he pressed more stubbornly against her lips.

“ _Who are you?_ ” he hissed, baring his teeth and spitting upon her face with the ferocity of his words.

She shook her head underneath his hand before he’d even had the change to remove it and began to laugh, all the while wriggling and kicking against his grip.

He slammed her back against a tree and forced his other hand around her throat. She acquiesced and merely continued to breathe her laughter against his hand.

“ _Why did you do that?_ ” She laughed further, even after he pulled his hand away and allowed her to speak.

“Speak!” he shook at her shoulders, trying to push through the insanity that gripped her features and racked her whole body with nervous twitches. As his panic rose in his chest, he lost the ability to control his whisper, and the command came out as a bark and a growl. She grinned at the viciousness of his response.

When he slammed her again, she swallowed her laughter and breathed out three words:

 “Watch them burnnnn” she hissed, before she commenced with cackling again. Her tongue flickered out across her lips, and her irises narrowed so that she became serpent-like before him and he withdrew in horror.

The moment CAstiel released her, he became properly aware of the screams that carried through the night sky, so much closer now and marking the arrival of his brothers and sisters for the woman’s spectacle. As she surveyed his horrified face, she cackled louder and her eyes became alight with the fire that blazed behind her (however that was possible) and they danced with insane pleasure.

He turned at once, and commenced running, spreading his wings for a hasty take off. When he left the ground, he aimed for a gap in the tree line that would bring him above the forest’s ceiling and within sight of his brothers and sisters.

As he felt the lift of force beneath his wings that marked the commencement of flight , he looked back, in time to see the woman stagger back into the flames and commence, once again, with screaming – the sound viler by the accompanying smell of her demise.

Oh God.

The shadows of Castiel’s brothers and sisters swept along the treetops, barreling towards the source of noise and light. From the ground, in between the woman’s wails, now haggard and pained, he could hear the sounds of weapons being drawn, and the urgent beat of hooves as the men presumably attempted to ready the passenger wagon for movement from the flames.

It must be that the men would stay to fight, while the travelers were pulled to safety. If there was any safety for them. It was doubtful. The commotion though was enough to wake the whole forest, even with the woman’s screams dying as she sizzled. Their only hope was distraction – the party was sure to be extinguished if they stood against the oncoming creatures.

Castiel swallowed and accepted his reality. There was only one option for him, really, unless he preferred cowardice. But it meant facing the inevitable. His brothers and sisters had been right that he would soon join them. They had lead him to the incident before him through his dream, for whatever purpose. But at least he could try to provide one small act of his Father’s mercy to his children in protecting them as best he could before he met his fate.

His vocal chords strained to drown out the sound of the chaos when he raised his voice and attempted to yell above it: “Brothers! Sisters! It is me you want!”

From across the treetops, he could see a few orient their attention in his direction, and he carried on with his screaming as he yelled for them: “I am here for you! Come for me!”

With those words, he took off, speeding furiously away from the commotion and barreling through the oncoming Angels. Those who he clipped turned, hissing, and called to him shrilly.

“Join me!” he cried, over his shoulder as he sped on and flew as fast as he could, towards the darker, deeper centre of the forest, from where he knew more Angels would be coming.

It was only thirty seconds into the flight before he realized it was fruitless. The screams at the camp were no longer stifled, but rose in earnest terror. The sound of weapons and cries of those meeting their ends rose above even the cries of the Angels that called through the forest now, calling to their brothers and sisters for information as to the commotion. There was the sound of cracking wood and the horrified shrieks of women and children, while men hollered in voices that cracked with the realization of their impending annihilation. It was a far greater promise than that of ripping apart the solitary body of one Angel yet to fall.

They were doomed, Castiel realized with sudden clarity amidst the commotion. He hung in the air, suddenly wracked with a fit of impotence in the face of such carnage. This road was to become the site of a second massacre. Another one with no survivors. His life was forfeit, and it would still mean nothing.

“ _Uh_ ” was the only sound that Castiel could emit – a kind of weak moan that protested against reality – a _No_ that could not quite form in the face of a circumstance that flew against a justice that was but imaginary. The Angelus did not have to prefer his life to those of the screaming humans, even if he had declared it for them. That was the point. There was no rationality to the circumstance. Only cruelty and faithlessness and Godlessness.

As he descended slowly to the treetops, beneath him, Castiel heard the thunder of hooves and a rough voice calling out desperately. He watched as he saw the shadows of two mounted riders weaving through the forest below them back toward the Road.

“Dean, stop! You can’t go back! They’re dead already!”

The man’s voice was desperate and broken as it called through the forest, trying to be heard over the pounding of hooves into the forest floor.

Further up the road, Castiel saw the black horse and its rider emerge, sword at the ready and held out in a last charge.

“Dean!” A lighter horse swerved onto the Road, carrying the darker, older man that Castiel had estimated was second-in-command. He grabbed desperately at the Captain’s reigns and swung perilously from his saddle as his horse galloped at full speed to align itself with the nimbler mare. As he grabbed at them, he pulled at the mare’s bit sharply and she swerved suddenly and dangerously, whinnying in terror as she struggled to hold herself upright with the weight of her rider thrown forward against her neck. She and the paler stallion slammed into one another and skidded along the gravel of the road, neighing in terror.

The Slayer was yelling atop his horse: “Goddamnit Rufus, those are my men!” His voice cracked with urgency and despair and brokenness as his mare finally corrected herself and found her feet, swerving to a stop on the side of the Road, her reigns still in the darker man’s hands.

“They’re gone. We have to leave.”

“We left them!”

“We had to. Come on, we have to go now. They’ll hear!”

The dark man yanked on the mare’s reigns and pulled her towards the tree line. She whinnied as her rider stubbornly pulled back on them and forced her to a halt.

“I stay with my men!” In the Captain’s hoarse anger, there was the despairing cry of a child too, that pleaded with the silent unresponsive forest.

The darker man didn’t respond and pulled on the reigns again. The mare reared in frustration and her rider scrambled to stay on her back, whilst holding his sword away from her exposed flesh.

 “Dean, it’s over. We can’t do anything. We have to-“

The second’s words were left incomplete as a howl from above cut them off. Castiel turned in time to see one of his kin fly past his shoulder, barreling in an attacking dive towards the ground, and knocking him out of flight. He tumbled to the ground, mercifully avoiding falling through a set of sharp branches, and rolled, encased in his wings’ protective hold. He felt the skin ripping as he rolled across the gravel though, and he stifled a cry of pain.

There was a scream that he heard as he fell, and a terrified whinny, before the human sound was cut off with a guttural snarl and a retch. A moment later, he heard a tearful “No!” and the sound of a sword swiping through the air. He righted himself in time to see the body of the darker man, still gurgling, fall to the ground - blood gushing from his open esophagus which had been torn apart by the mouth of the creature.  His body lay, twisting into contortions, as though it would force death away from it until, as soon as it had been alive moments ago, it became a corpse.

The animal descended upon the Captain then, a bloody grin across its face. The Captain elbowed it away from his vulnerable neck and twisted upon his horse to face it, sword raised and face spattered with his comrade’s blood. The man’s face was a snarl that shook with the ferocity of a caged animal at its most vulnerable and most dangerous. Castiel grabbed frantically at his waist, where his blade hung and drew it. As the Angel twisted, and flew down to strike again at the man, this time angling itself better for a kill, Castiel yelled at it, pleading: “brother, no!”

The sound of his voice was enough to distract the Angel momentarily, and the Captain took the opportunity to grab at the Angel and wrestle it. He fell from his horse as he did so, and the creature whinnied and bolted from the tussle.

Castiel pulled himself from the ground and raced towards the fighting pair, but was stopped when he heard the cry of the man and saw the Angel sink it’s teeth into his uncovered leg, ripping at the flesh and tearing a chunk from it, which flew from its mouth and past Castiel to land with a vile squelch against a tree behind him.

The man howled as the Angel grabbed at his throat and pounded his head back against the dirt. The yell was cut off with the second thump of his head against the ground, and the Captain went limp in the creature’s arms. It leaned forward slowly, grinning foully, and was seconds away from ripping at the man’s throat with its bloody mouth when Castiel shoved his blade through its own throat. His heart thudded with heavy relief when he heard the choke that marked its temporary demise.

Despite the omnipresent screams of his brothers and sisters around him, he hacked off the creature’s head for good measure with the Captain’s sword (far sharper and more brutal than his own) and threw it back towards the Road. Made lighter without its head, Castiel heaved the body of the bleeding Angel over the unconscious man to smother his scent, and retreated silently to the cover of the forest, only meters away, cowering under his wings. There he plead to his Father to spare him a torturous end like that which had met the travelers he had been too slow to protect, whose screams were still piercing the clearing.

…

The human screams died quickly, but the Angel’s chorus of ceremony and celebration lasted for hours more as they feasted. Only when the light began to rise over the horizon did the refrain slowly fade out. Even then, Castiel remained, shivering and encased in his wings, against the tree trunk he had thrown himself against, murmuring in a kind of madness.

He might have waited there for another day and night, lost in his own self-loathing and distress, but for the soft moan of the Captain that dragged him from the brink.

“Uuummgggghh”, the man choked over his own words and retched underneath the body of the Angel.  At the unexpected sound (for Castiel had been convinced the man too had died during the night) Castiel stumbled to him without bothering to cast his gaze around his surroundings. With little care, Castiel heaved the dead (at least, for now) Angel from where it covered the Captain. The man was covered in sticky, tacky blood and dirty, sweaty grime. Castiel heaved himself at the sight of it.

The man torturously tried to open his eyes and raise his head, but he winced in pain, and let his head drop back again, groaning. Castiel dropped to meet him, and reached to his neck to check for the strength of his pulse. It was weak, but persistent – not the flutter of those who were near Death’s stranglehold. The man was alive. He had survived the night.

The man winced at the feel of Castiel’s touch on his neck, and he forced his eyes open for a few more seconds before the balls rolled back in his head and he went limp again. Castiel kept feeling for the pulse despite the brief turn of consciousness – it stayed, although its pace lessened slightly.

Quickly, he ran his hands down the man’s body, searching for the wound he’d remembered seeing inflicted. He felt it on his right thigh – the skin was torn and swollen and his fingers came away bloody. The scent was rotten.

Castiel wouldn’t remember what possessed him over the next few hours. At no point did his decision feel conscious or calculated. He remembered tearing down his breeches with trembling hands, and emptying his bladder’s contents onto the man’s wound. He remembered being surprised he hadn’t pissed himself the night before. He remembered ripping at his shirt, for the Captain’s had the same festering smell as the Angel that had lain on him, and knotting it around the man’s thigh. He remembered momentarily fretting as to how he would transport the man, and mapping out the forest in his mind to locate the nearest water source. He remembered whistling for the mare, the same three note combination that the Captain had used, and being pleased with his idea when she responded.

He remembered slinging the man across her saddle and climbing behind him, and the burden of the Captain’s weight as he lolled back against Castiel and groaned a little, passing in and out of consciousness.

And he remembered that they left the clearing at a thunderous gallop, as though the mare knew her master’s life was in danger, and she was desperate for its preservation.

...

** 2013 **

When Castiel withdrew from the memory, he found himself confronted with the burn of Dean’s gaze on his face. It was searching and open, for the first time, and Castiel found himself unable to withdraw from it, as he knew he should. There was fear in Dean’s eyes as they appraised him, but it was not the defensive aggressive fear that had occupied them previously. Rather, it was a fear that was unacknowledged in the rest of his stiff posture that spoke to a distressed, urgent and pleading fear that thrummed with a low hum deep in the mind’s recesses.

When Castiel witnessed it, he sought it further, burrowing into it with his own gaze, and opening himself to Dean through his own expression – it was one of pleading, and a stuttered small cry for him – _Dean, please_. Dean’s eyes widened momentarily, before the glassy walls snapped up and his eyes darted away from Castiel’s, his breathing suddenly erratic and harried and every-so-slightly desperate.

The silence was broken by Jessica’s voice. “Cas?”

He pulled his gaze slowly away from Dean to Jessica, who looked stricken across from him, her fingers clutching at a blanket she had wrapped around herself and her knuckles white.

“The people, in the carriage. Did they all die?”

He met her gaze evenly. “Yes. Aside from Dean, only one escaped.”

Jessica let out a shuddering sigh.

“Who was she?”

“She was... a wretched soul. Who was paid the right price.”

Jessica breathed out slowly.

“All those people.”

“Yes.”

The silence hung in the air until Sam broke it.

“Perhaps we should take a break.”

He eased himself slowly from his seat and ambled towards the kitchen. The group sat silently until he returned, carrying four mugs of tea, which he held out the group. Jessica took hers and cupped it in her hands, though she looked at it glumly, and with some distaste. Dean similarly ignored his and placed it on the floor at his feet.

“So, Dean was wounded.”

“Yes, severely. The bite of an Angelus was filthy. Even a shallow cut was enough to spread deadly toxins through the bloodstream. He had virtually no chance of survival with a wound so deep and close to his core.”

“But, you rescued him anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Why? I mean, you didn’t...”

Sam nudged her lightly. “No. I did not know then what Dean would be to me. But... I still do not know. I only imagine my Father had a hand in it.”

“God.”

“Yes, him.”

Jessica gave a surprised little exclamation. “No, I meant... it was an expression of shock.”

“Oh.”

Jessica smiled at Castiel quickly, but stopped again at once, clearly embarrassed at such a show of positive emotion after so distressing a part of Castiel’s tale. They waited in contemplative silence for quite some time, and Dean stared stubbornly at his feet. Eventually, Castiel spoke up shakily:

“Perhaps, I ought to continue?”

Three of four of the party met his eyes and Castiel felt a coil of nervousness in his stomach.

“Yes, please Cas.”

Sam nodded and smiled forlornly at him, and Dean sat up a little straighter.

 

 

 

 


	6. And Your Heart

** CHAPTER FIVE **

** 1424 **

It had been a risk, travelling so far in such a short time, to bring the Captain back to his cottage. Castiel had stopped only once, at the sound of running water and had quenched his thirst and cleaned the most superficial grime from the man’s wound. He’d pissed on it again, in the hope that it might do some good to counteract the filthy Angel corpse it had been left under, but it had not. The wound had festered and the soldier’s skin was beginning to burn. Against Castiel’s chest, he began to murmur and jostle with the onset of delirium.

Castiel administered a small dose of the poppy first, upon arriving at his home – it wasn’t enough for the anesthetic effect he wanted, but it would hopefully dull the man – Dean – to the sensations of the upcoming procedure. Castiel could feel the steady throb of the affected area beneath his hand, when he ran his hand up the soldier’s leg, checking for swelling. It was rank, despite his best efforts – the venom had infiltrated the wound too quickly.

After he had peeled the bandage back, Castiel had thrown up twice from the smell. It was still intolerable, even breathing through his mouth, but with nothing left in his stomach to empty, he was able to control himself sufficiently to carry out the task at hand.

He set immediately to clean the wound as best he could with what little he had at his disposal – a mix of salt and boiled water. Occasionally, he had to stop to pull out gravel or clumps of dirt that had collected on the journey with his tweezers, and remove a few ragged shreds of skin. The task was arduous and careful, and even passed out and under the influence the poppy, he felt the man’s body stiffen and recoil from his touch.

When the wound was clean, he stepped back to appreciate it – it was worse than he thought. The mouth had ripped a chunk of muscle not quite as deep as his thumb from the thigh, and the whole area was red raw and swollen so tight it was practically closed upon itself.

There was a jolt of panic deep in Castiel’s belly. Whatever he had at his disposal, it wasn’t enough. The humans he had managed to heal in the past had not been near so advanced in their infection as this man was, and their wounds had not been so deep. He paced the room several times, unable to tear his eyes away from the hole as the man began to shiver on the table. Eventually, he spurred himself to action, with the sensibility that even a failed attempt was better than no attempt to spare the man’s life.

He left the wound in the open air while he ground the plantain weed (thankfully, that he had in abundance). When prepared, he applied it as a poultice, pressing it as deep into the throbbing wound as he dared. He had nothing to cover it with, to ensure it stayed in place, but he held out in the hope that his patient would be incapacitated long enough for it to draw. When he was done, he cleaned his utensils carefully, in case they would be required for more action later, and he prepared a cooling compress for the man’s feverish skin. It did little to alter the burn below the surface, and the man sweated worse with every passing hour. But it was all Castiel could do, that was not sitting back and allowing the man to die.

...

He applied another poultice the next day, and removed the pus that the first had drawn. But there was no change in the man’s general condition.

At some point, he stripped the mare of her saddle and washed her down, being as gentle as he could with the sores that had emerged on her skin from where she had been left to wear the sweaty leather in the cold hours of the night. In the afternoon, he took her out to graze and left her tied to a tree with sufficient rope that she could reach the tiny stream that ran beside his home. It was daylight, so she would be safe from his brothers and sisters.

Regardless, that wasn’t his main concern. The concern was that the feverish man that shivered on the table before him, and turned yellower with each passing day.

Castiel wasn’t making him better.

And he didn’t know what to do.

In the old days, his answer had always been clear. He knew his father’s intentions. The humans were to be spared. Where that meant his Grace, there was no doubt as to his actions. It was the reason he was so impotent now. He’d held the hands of so many dying humans, and torn them from the brink, even when it dragged at his very soul to do so. He loved them, and he rejoiced in their return. And he knew it was right.

But now his Father had forsaken him, and his tortured brothers and sisters outside. He had left Castiel and the humans to torment and suffering. There was no longer any reason to suppose he cared for their lives to be saved. And therefore, there was no need to save this human.

Yet he was here, and yet Castiel had not thought of his Father when he made the decision to bring him. And now he was dying.

Who was this man? Castiel knew he fascinated him – more so than the other humans. He’d seen his power – in battle and in manner. But was that worth the risk?

There was more value than just his life at stake, Castiel knew. He was valuable to the humans – he was a leader. He lead them carefully and bravely on the Road, so far as Castiel had seen. And the deference with which they attended to him only suggested that he had done so on many occasions, to great success. He was a man who held other lives in his hands. Without his direction, there had been terror and confusion. The soliders had lost their assurance, and therefore they had lost their lives.

If Castiel returned him he would return an important soul, he was sure.

But was that enough? There were other important souls that he’d seen lost four nights ago. The second-in-command had been one such soul. He was valiant, and his care for his men was the same as this man’s. And he’d seen that man’s throat torn out. He’d seen the attack, and he’d done nothing to stop it.

It wasn’t just the worth of this man’s life that was in question. It was the worth of his life against what might be Castiel’s own that was the true calculus.

If Castiel were to heal him, and it were to deplete his Grace, would it be worth it? Could what the man could achieve in his lifetime, exceed an infinity of Castiel’s efforts feeding and placating the Angels could offer? And even if it were worth it in the larger scheme, was it worth it to himself? That he should pass into oblivion for the sake of this man?

It was selfishness that held him back, more than anything. It made him doubt, where those like Anna had never doubted, preferring to press the large shards of their Grace into a person’s wound for their Father and taking on the Change.

Castiel had known for a long time that he was no Anael. He had no such courage and purity of thought. Where she had faith and certainty, he had doubt and rebelliousness. Even before their fall, it had been she who had lead the Garrison and brought meaning to their Father’s word. He was a soldier only, never imbued with the strength or power to inspire so wondrously, nor follow so faithfully. He thought of himself, where others thought of utopia. He was imperfect.

But if selfishness was to be the determinant, why was this man here? Castiel had risked himself in retrieving him (and the mare) in the first place. And he’d known hours into the ride back that the chances of the Captain’s survival were incredibly low. He’d known that the scent of the man’s blood would bring danger to him on the ride home. And he’d known when he’d removed the bandage, and seen the wound that there was no hope without intervention. And he’d done it all anyway. He’d tried, rather than give the man a mercy and break his neck.

That was the truth then. He’d already decided to save him. He’d intended this man to live from the beginning, knowing what it might cost him. He’d prolonged his suffering because he had hope. And he knew that there was only one ground for hope; only one method to save the man dying before him. He’d known that night, above the treetops that he would have given his life to save the humans from the pursuit of the Angelus. He’d been prepared to do it then, and he’d been prepared to do it again when he’d approached the warring Angel and the Captain, ready to place himself between them.

Whatever failings he had, he’d made the decision long before he stood at this man’s bedside, contemplating his future.

It was settled then. And so he made to it, before he allowed himself to change his mind.

…

Dean was in darkness. But it wasn’t cold darkness, like the pitch black of the Road on nights when the clouds covered the starlight. It was a hot, pressing darkness that infiltrated his lungs and made each breath feel fruitless.

He was clawing at it, but it was a thick, warm glue, and it clung to him like a sinister kind of comfort – shushing him as it encircled him.

Then there was a bright heat – so sharp it was almost cool – that felt like it might slice all Dean’s veins open at once.

And then the darkness was thinning, little by little. He could feel a slow, steady coolness starting to drip down him, like an egg had been cracked on his forehead. It wasn’t fast enough – his whole body still screamed at the heat that crowded him. But it was lessening, slowly but surely. Enough for Dean to gasp in a few breaths of mercifully cool air before the heat reasserted itself, warring and attacking and desperately preserving his existence. Then the coolness flooded him, like ice, and he felt his whole body constrict around it, desperately holding onto to its therapeutic presence. Begging it, _please, save me_.

And then there was light.

…

Castiel felt dizzy after he sent a jolt of his Grace into Dean’s bloodstream. It had been a cowardly option, he knew, but he was sure it would work. The Grace would purify the blood, and purge it of the infection that the wound had spread. The wound would be left open, and would still require extensive cleaning before it could be closed. The man’s body would have much to accomplish in its natural healing. But, without the threat of the infection, Castiel was sure he could treat the wound – he had done so with high success before.

He’d had to sit and breathe for a while after, in any case. He wasn’t sure if he really had come close to expending the last vestiges of his Grace, or merely been so terrified of doing so that he’d physically exhausted himself. He knew there was a dull ache at his core, and a sensation of brittleness underneath his skin. But he chose to ignore it, beyond the few minutes of recovery that he allowed himself. The point was, he’d survived and succeeded. He had a soul to save.

Cleaning the wound was much easier absent the blood infection. He applied one final poultice, which would seal the wound long enough for the muscle to commence healing, and left a cold compress on the man’s head, before he curled up, still clothed, in his nest, to sleep properly for the first time in several days.

…

He was awoken what could not have been more than a few hours later by the man’s soft groans and the sounds of his utensils clattering to the floor as the man shifted atop the table. He was waking up.

Castiel hurriedly stood up and grabbed at the fur he’d left beside him. He tucked his wings as close to his back as he could, to avoid creating an odd-looking silhouette, and threw the fur over his shoulders, before stumbling quickly to the table and placing his hands on the man’s forehead.

It was still a little warm, but much cooler than a few hours ago. The Grace had worked. He quickly looked down to the injured thigh and ran his hand lightly along the muscle. It was still a little swollen, but the skin no longer shone with the infection. The poultice was working too.

As was his habit, although he’d long since stopped believing he could be heard, he murmured out loud: “Thank you, Father.”

The man’s eyelids had begun to flutter and at the sound, they flew open and he pushed himself up weakly, looking around panicked and confused.

Castiel bent over in front of him, dipping his head to meet the man’s eye.

“Stay calm. You’re in a safe place, but you’re injured. I need you to stay still.”

The man met his eyes, but he was squinting, adjusting to light after so many days caught in his delirium.

“What happened?” His voice was deep and hoarse, and dry from dehydration.

“You were on the Road. There was a skirmish and your party was attacked. You fell from your horse and were bitten by a creature. I pulled you away and brought you here. Your wound was infected, but it is healed now.”

His eyes were wide and his voice was frantic: “What happened to my men?”

Castiel swallowed, and averted his gaze, feeling again the burn of shame that he hadn’t done more. “The sound attracted a swarm of creatures.”

The man swallowed, and dropped his gaze too. “What about the wagon with the people in it? Did they get inside in time?”

“They stopped screaming very soon after the attack. I believe they were overpowered.”

The man’s lip curled, so that his nose crinkled as though there were a bad smell in the room. His voice, at once, was hollow when he spoke.

“Did you see her?”

Castiel paused momentarily to consider his answer

“Yes… she was mad.”

The man slammed his fist down on the table viciously, and a moment later moved to put his head in his hands. He shifted his legs up to support his elbows, but stopped halfway, hissing.

Castiel put his hand to the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry that you are distressed, but you need to lie still. Your wound is still open”.

The man ignored him in favor of staring blankly ahead. Castiel left him to his grief for a moment, walking to his small kitchen and bringing back a flask of water. The man barely registered its arrival.

 “Please drink it. It’s been three days since I brought you back here.”

The man sighed deeply, and the air that escaped through his nostrils did so in a wheeze. With a resigned nod, he took the flask and swallowed the offering quickly. Setting it down, he turned to look at Castiel warily: “How did you find me?”

“I was in the forest. The sounds drew me there. I hoped to help, but… I saw you attacked and I pulled you away and hid you, until I had a chance to get you away.”

The man nodded and looked away, to his leg, where he traced the edge of the poultice with hs finger. “Where are we?”

“In a very old mountain base.”

The man’s lip curled, and he leaned back on his hands.

“Are you going to be more specific?”

“No.”

The man’s eyebrows raised, but his eyes stayed blank and cautious, taking in the array of utensils Castiel had left arranged wantonly on the table in the kitchen.

“You live here? Alone?” There was a clear disbelief in the man’s voice.

“Yes. For a long time now.”

“How do you survive? With the Angels out there?”

Castiel averted his eyes and adjusted his fur carefully, shrugging it higher up on his shoulders, so he could be sure the weight would not pull it down and reveal his back by accident. “I stay quiet, mostly. They seem to have adjusted to my presence. I have been untroubled for a long time.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Right… And what’s your name?”

“My name is Castiel.”

His brow furrowed and he tilted his head a little: “ _Castiel?_ ”

“It’s a very old name.”

“Huh…”

The Captain’s eyes took in Castiel’s features, and the bulk of the fur he was hiding under. They lingered for a moment on the small bulge at his shoulder blades. Castiel turned quickly so that his back was facing away from the man and flattened his wings as hard as he could against his back.

“…. And what do I call you?”

The Captain stared at him and his brow furrowed.

“Uh,… Dean.”

Castiel smiled. “Are you hungry, Dean?”

Dean didn’t return the smile. “No.”

Castiel sighed and turned away to the kitchen. “Regardless, you must eat.”

He brought back bread and a few slices of the dried fox meat he had prepared last week. “I’m sorry that I have so little to offer. Watching over you, I’ve been distracted from my usual routine.”

Dean took the offering but only set it beside him. He didn’t eat it for several minutes, until Castiel stared him down, and he obliged by taking a tiny bite.

He retched it back up again only a few minutes later.

Castiel eventually returned to the kitchen with the untouched meal and left it there, while Dean lay back on the table and covered his face with his hands.

“Dean, I…” Dean barely stirred in response. “I’m just going to fetch some fresh water from the river. You need to drink more. I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Please rest.”

Dean nodded but didn’t remove his hands from his face.

Castiel left the room and forgot to take the bucket with him. He waited out some time by the stream instead, too uncertain to return immediately, grooming the mare’s mane with his fingers and petting at her nose. She whickered softly in response, but didn’t return his touch as affectionately as she had her master’s. Castiel supposed she imagined he was dead. He knew she had understood on their ride home the urgency of her master’s circumstance, and Castiel had felt her ravage her own muscles on the return journey. She was paying for it now, with stiff movements and a heavy gait. Castiel sighed and ran his hand down her flanks, trying to comfort her. She stamped at the ground softly but otherwise ignored him.

Castiel waited as long as he dared, but was determined that Dean should rehydrate himself. Based on his state, Castiel doubted he was being necessarily careful and eventually he returned, pulling his fur tighter around him.

Dean hadn’t moved from the table, but he had righted himself so that his legs were swinging off the ledge of the table. His face was red and his eyes were glassy, but he greeted Castiel with a false overcompensatory cheeriness. Castiel felt it would be better to ignore the tear that still hung at Dean’s chin, murky with salt.

 “So you’re some kind of forest doctor?”

Castiel busied himself retrieving the tools Dean had knocked to the ground. They would have to be purified again in due course. Dean would certainly need stitching to the wound and Castiel was wary of treating its cleanliness with anything other than hyper-attentive care. “I have some experience in healing, although I haven’t had occasion in a long time.”

“So,” Dean gestured to his leg “How bad is it?”

“It’s deep. The wound was infected. I tried to keep it clean while transporting you here, but an Angel’s mouth is filthy.”

“How long until it’s fixed?”

“Sorry?”

“How long until I can walk?”

“I… The cut is very deep. A large part of the muscle severed. That will take weeks to properly heal. I need to stitch the wound closed. It will take around ten days for the skin to seal, but there will be pain for much longer. It may take some time to recover proper use.”

“Once it’s stitched, will I be able to walk?”

“You will, but… the movement will likely open the stitches. You’ll risk infection again, and more damage.”

“So how long?”

“Once the stitches are gone, you will be able to walk. But it will be significant effort. It will be a number of weeks before you are properly healed.”

“Son of a...” Dean’s false smile vanished abruptly and he slammed his fist against the table and breathed out hard and fast through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

“No… I,…” He looked up, still huffing, but apologetic. “Thank you. For saving me. I just… if any of my men are still out there, I need to find them. They’re my responsibility. This is my fault. And I can’t even damn _walk to_ …” He cut off, and ducked his head, grimacing and shaking angrily.

“If anyone escaped, they will be long from the site by now. You couldn’t help them even if you could walk, Dean.”

Dean kept looking down, head hanging heavily on his neck.

“All you can do is heal.” Castiel continued softly, staring carefully at Dean. “When you are done, you can return to your city, or you can search for them on the Road. You cannot be faulted for being unable to do more.”

Dean swallowed and nodded resignedly, but his fingers curled angrily around the edge of the table until the knuckles were white.

“…Yeah, just… can you sew me up?”

“Yes.”

Castiel crossed the room to where his utensils were still laid out in the kitchen. His eyes flickered to his leather pelt, which lay in its original position on a small stool against the wall at the end of the table. The loose knot that had held it closed was considerably tighter than when he’d left it, as though it had been tied with haste.

He turned to Dean slowly, needle and thread in hand, and voice measured.

“I will sew your wound, Dean. But I’d like you to give me back my knife first.”

“What?”

“My knife.”

“How did you…?”

Castiel advanced cautiously, letting the needle in his finger catch Dean’s eye. Dean’s eyes flickered there at once, and his posture stiffened in recognition of the implied threat.

“I was a soldier once too. I know that one’s guard should not be dropped so easily.”

“You’re not a soldier anymore?” Dean’s gaze was wary, and his hand twitched where it was pressed, palm flat against the table, beside his uninjured thigh. Where, Castiel quickly extrapolated, he was likely concealing the knife.

“My cause was futile, in the end. I have preferred the peaceful life for a long time.”

Dean shifted a little, and Castiel noted the forced casualness of the movement. Dean was clever, but Castiel was experienced. The small gesture confirmed Castiel’s suspicions. “Why should I trust you?”

“You have great cause not to.”

“That doesn’t help.”

Castiel paused.

“You also have no choice. There’s no way you could overpower me with that injury.”

Dean was silent.

“I can offer only my sincerest promise that I intend to help you. And…” he smiled softly “…a gesture of goodwill.”

He reached into the pocket of his fur and pulled out the knife he had carried on his person since he brought Dean here. Knowing that his wings could not stay secret from him for long, he was prepared for a violent outburst, and he needed to protect himself.

Slowly, and keeping eye contact, he set the knife down on the table beside him.

“Now yours. Or, should I say, _mine_.” His eyes flickered to Dean’s thigh and Dean’s eyes warily tracked the movement.

Dean considered for a while, before he withdrew it from beneath his leg and held it out to Castiel, hilt first. Castiel took it cautiously, watching for a trick. Their fingers brushed as he took the handle from Dean, and Dean dropped his hand abruptly, letting Castiel set it aside on the kitchen table.

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate your trust… Would you allow me to stitch your wound now?”

Dean held his gaze for a long while, before he conceded by looking away.

“… Alright.”

“Good. Can you lie back on the table, please?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Castiel laid the needle and threat on the table, and boiled some water to clean away the last of whatever the poultice had drawn. Dean tensed a little the first time the needle breached the skin, but otherwise lay unmoving, staring blankly at the ceiling, until Castiel finished his task and finally cut the thread.

“You can sit up now.”

Castiel put away his tools and turned to face Dean, who was watching him intently.

“It will take at least ten days for the wound to seal. You will have to stay fairly still for that time. If you move too much, the wound may re-open and you’ll risk further infection.”

Dean pressed his lips together, eyes still on Castiel.

“I understand your trepidation. But regardless of whether you trust me or not, you have no choice. You have to stay here until you are healed.”

Dean didn’t respond, but didn’t look away from Castiel, even when Castiel met his eyes and held the gaze.

“I would prefer it if you would trust me. I have given you no reason to doubt me yet, and every reason to believe I am here to help you.”

There was a long silence before Dean looked down and bit his lip.

Finally, he spoke: “in that case… I better give you back this one too.” He withdrew a second, smaller knife from behind his back, and held it out to Castiel, with a nervous but  genuine smile upon his face.

…

It was a quiet first few days. Dean slept a lot, while his body took the opportunity to heal. Castiel had done his best to re-arrange the furs that comprised his nest in a more suitable situation for a sleeping human. Dean had looked quizzical when Castiel had first offered it to him, and Castiel had given a flustered explanation as to his preferred sleeping arrangements.

Dean had been reluctant to take it at first, insisting as a soldier he was content to sleep on the floor, so long as Castiel could provide him with something warm. But Castiel had refused to hear his protests, and took to sleeping in a small wooden chair across the room from Dean. It was a useful position – he could press his wings into the back of the chair to avoid them re-arranging themselves during the night.

They hadn’t spoken a lot. Castiel spent time in his garden, collecting the last of the vegetables, and gathering on the fringes of the forest, although he was reluctant to leave the house for too long in case Dean needed assistance. He generally refused Castiel’s offers of help when he was required to move, usually for a piss. But on the second day he’d fallen on his way to the pot. The stitches hadn’t broken, but Castiel had heard the cursing even down by the stream. He’d ignored the puffiness of Dean’s cheeks when he’d found him on the floor, and the many times he’d returned to the cottage after he’d given Dean some time alone.

He checked the stitches every day. The wound was deep and it was taking longer to heal than expected, but he showed Dean how the skin was beginning to swell to close around the wound. It would heal eventually, and the soldier would be restored. The only time Dean smiled was when he eagerly anticipated returning to Ardus.

They talked a little too, although Dean was still wary of Castiel and seemed perturbed by his manner at times. He learned that Dean had been a captain since he was 21 (he was 24 now) – an age so young it was unprecedented. His father had served as a soldier before him, and he had a younger brother who was a Scribe in Ardus’ Grand Library.

But mostly, Dean was silent. The cause of his distrust wasn’t difficult to surmise. As a soldier, Dean had seen men torn limb from limb by the angels that haunted the Road. Skilled men, armed with weapons and years of training. So the thought of a man, surviving on his own in the forest, for an indeterminate amount of time was fairly unbelievable. He was clearly under the impression that Castiel had not shared the whole truth.

It made Castiel nervous. Dean would be bound to his home for at least a month. And the temperature was changing. By the time he was healed, it would be far too cold to travel the distance to the Citadel. If Dean were to have to wait for warmer weather, he might remain with Castiel for two months, maybe even three.

It would be too long to keep the secret. That was certain. Already his wings were cramping from disuse. He’d taken to the depths of the forest a few times, far beyond where Dean would be able to see him from the window, and let them stretch. He’d wanted to fly, but he’d decided against taking the risk. The relationship was still a cautious one, and if he were seen that would be the end of it.

The trick would be gaining Dean’s trust sufficiently that his revelation would not seem so drastic. If Dean understood he had sufficiently human qualities, he might not associate Castiel with the Angels, and wish to annihilate him.

It was for that reason that Castiel kept the horse’s presence quiet for the first few days. It wasn’t difficult; she stayed quiet and rested in the stable behind Castiel’s cottage

She was a sweet thing, albeit somewhat distrusting of him. He’d spent some time with her each day, combing her mane and tail with his fingers. He was struggling to feed the animal, unsure of what exactly she was able to eat. He’d tried to cut grass for her, and had it stored in several buckets along the line of the barn. But once the cold came, he wasn’t sure how to provide for her. All he knew was that it was crucial he did.

On the sixth day since Dean woke, he decided he was in need of her services. He set Dean up on a chair in the doorway of the cottage, with a small smile and the quiet promise of “a surprise”. Dean seemed slightly put off by the way Castiel had phrased the promise, but he sat contentedly enough, with a blanket draped over his knees, while Castiel walked around to the barn and retrieved the mare.

She came with him willingly enough, although he had draped an old rope bridle around her head to lead her, unaware of how she would react seeing her master again.

At the sight of his mare appearing from the side of the cottage, Dean jolted in surprise. Then he almost visibly inflated before Castiel’s eyes.

He stood up stiffly and leaned on the doorframe, careful to keep his weight off his injured leg and reached his hand out for her.

“ _Impala_ ” He breathed, eyes wide and shining. Castiel smiled in earnest and lead the horse to the foot of the stairs.

“God. Castiel, _thank you_.” He reached forward to the horse and stroked one hand down her neck before leaning forward and burying his face in her mane and sighing. Castiel could hear him murmuring into her neck: “How are you, baby? I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m sorry that I kept her a secret from you, Dean. I was… worried that the ride here may have exhausted her. I wanted to be sure, before I brought her to you.”

Dean nodded, but didn’t remove his face from where it rested against the horse.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Mmph” Dean breathed out against the horse.

Castiel let him to his silence for a while, before Dean eventually withdrew, and just stroked his palm up and down the horse’s head.

He turned to Castiel. “Really, Castiel. _Thank you_. This horse, she means a lot to me. We’ve been riding together since I started serving as Captain. She’s saved my life before.”

“I’d believe that. She’s a smart creature.”

Dean smiled and looked at her fondly. “Smarter than her rider even.”

“I’d like to leave her out to graze for a few hours, while there’s daylight.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Using the doorframe for support, Dean slowly lowered himself back onto his chair and wrapped the blanket he’d disregarded on the ground around his shoulders.

“Would you like me to bring you your meal here?”

“Uh, yeah. Thank you, Castiel. I’d like that.”

Castiel smiled and lead the horse to the pasture in front of his home. There, he pulled off the bridle, knowing that now the horse had seen her owner, she would stay in the vicinity. Glancing back, he saw Dean wiping at his face hurriedly.

Castiel turned back and watched the pasture for a while, giving the soldier his privacy. He was stressed and tired, and the loss of his men was obviously haunting him. He hadn’t said anything. Castiel doubted it was to do with the tentative trust they were trying to set up. Dean didn’t appear to deal with emotion readily at all. That in itself wasn’t strange to Castiel. He was very similar.

After a minute or so had passed, he returned to the house to prepare Dean’s afternoon meal. His stomach twisted when he placed it in Dean’s lap, and Dean returned with a small smile – one of the first he’d seen since Dean had arrived.

Revealing the mare had had the desired effect then. He would have to reveal his true form to Dean soon enough then, before the goodwill of the gesture wore off…

...

** 2013 **

Castiel finished his storytelling earlier that evening despite the pleas of his party to continue. Dean remained silent upon the seat and unmoving, for the final few hours, and it was only the movement of the party around him that jolted him into action. Sam set about preparing dinner for the group, while Jessica plagued Castiel with questions of his home, and he even went so far to draw the layout of his cottage for her, on a bizarrely thin piece of paper and a “pen” that Jessica explained was equipped internally with ink.

Throughout the discussion Dean sat silently, eyes on the floor before him, but he gave a slight twitch when Castiel explained to Jessica how his nest had been assembled, and how Dean had modified it over the course of his stay. Soon after, he departed silently to the kitchen, where Castel could not detect the sounds of any conversation passing between him and Sam.

When Bobby excused himself to visit the shower room, Jessica crossed the room and seated herself beside Castiel.

“Are you ok, Cas?”

“I am well, thank you.”

Her eyes creased around the edges.

“I’m sorry for the way Greg’s acting. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Honestly.”

Castiel pursed his lips and dropped his gaze. “I understand he has his own difficulties. I promise, I feel only concern for him.”

Jessica bit her lip. “It’s just... well, it seems to bother you.”

Castiel felt his wings stiffen against him, betraying the calm exterior he was forcibly maintaining. The movement clearly didn’t go unnoticed by Jessica, who shifted slightly against the seat but made no mention of his reaction.

“Is there a particular reason you want him to be here so badly?”

Castiel met her eyes, but didn’t answer.

She nodded once, curtly and gave him a small smile: “right, not my business. Sorry. I’ll make sure he stays in line.” She fished from her pocket a ring covered with jagged silver items, which jangled against each other. He presumed these were the keys to Dean’s wagon that she had obtained custody of. “These are staying with me.”

Castiel gave a little laugh and she winked at him conspirationally, carefully replacing the ring in her breeches. They sat in silence for a little while, and Bobby meandered through the sitting area to join the men in the kitchen.

“Do you want some fresh air, Cas?”

Castiel looked up from where he had been contemplating his fingernails, and imagining Dean’s own when they’d been together – cut short and rough, usually with the dregs of dirt caught under their surface. Soldier’s hands.

“I should avoid being seen.”

Jessica shrugged nonchalantly: “it’s dinnertime. Everyone will be watching TV. Just wrap yourself up in a blanket and stay on the balcony – you’ll be fine.”

Castiel considered for a moment before he nodded. The air in the room was stifling and thin in a way he could not describe – it tasted sharp and metallic. And it pressed on him further knowing that Dean was on the other side of the wall, but avoided him so stubbornly.

“You boys want to come?”

There was a cry of distress from the kitchen and no answer.

“Come on.” Jessica tugged on Castiel’s arm. “They’re burning it. Let’s get out of here before the smell catches up.”

Once he was properly wrapped so as to conceal his wings (Jessica tentatively arranged the blanket around him, with apologies every time she accidentally touched his feathers inadvertently), she led the way to the “balcony” outside the main entrance.  She led him across it and down an L shape so that they were looking out with an unencumbered view of the road before them. Castiel’s wings bristled with self-consciousness, and while Jessica’s eyes flickered to the blanket, she didn’t make mention of them.

They were situated as part of a much later block of rooms, built on top of one another, overlooking a grey square where a few wagons sat, utterly silent and still. The door from which they had emerged was numbered, as were the doors along the balcony, in order to properly identify them for guests.

It was an inn of sorts, although Jessica corrected him and explained it was known as a “motel” in their time. The group had only planned to stay there for a few weeks, but after they’d made the discovery of the tunnel below the castle, there’d been little time to relocate to better housing – they’d barely spent any time at this place since then. They all had their own rooms next to one another – Jessica explained they’d been staying in Sam’s for the past few days. Hers was next door, marked with the number 8. Bobby had his own on the other side, which they all avoided using because, as Jessica said, “he’s grumpy and messy”. Dean was in another motel that Jessica said was “gross”. He didn’t pursue further what she meant by that. They used Sam’s room, Jessica said, because it was tidier, and didn’t smell so terrible and...

“Are you and Keith betrothed?”

Jessica stopped, mid-sentence, and blushed furiously. “No! We’re not even... we’re friends! I, uh...”

She turned away and anxiously began combing through her mass of curls.

Castiel swallowed awkwardly and looked back out to the road, in order to give her a moment to collect herself. In truth, given the obvious affection between them and even Bobby’s acknowledgment of it, he hadn’t anticipated that the question would be such a sensitive one: “I apologize. The offence was not intended.”

She spluttered through two attempts at a reply before she managed to squeeze out, through an increasingly reddening face: “Why- why would you think that?”

Castiel looked away quickly and rearranged his expression into one of nonchalance.

“I misunderstood. When I last inhabited with humans, it was unusual for a male and female to spend so much time with one another when they were not betrothed.”

That was a bald-faced lie, but he delivered it with enough evenness that Jessica seemed at least a little reassured. Still, she stayed silent for a little while and nibbled at her bottom lip, arms crossed.

“He’s my supervisor, Cas. We-, I mean, he couldn’t. It’s not professional. He’d lose his job.”

Castiel nodded, although he missed understanding what she meant with the words “supervisor” and “professional”. He understood that Bobby was the superior to Sam in intellect, and thus instructed him. Perhaps she meant to express the same relationship.

“Plus... he doesn’t see me like that. I’m just a kid to him.”

Castiel doubted that very much. It was obvious, even to him, that Jessica was the kind of woman who was widely admired – no man would ever imagine her as a child. When she thought Castiel was looking away, she dropped her head and for a moment, and her forlorn expression was entirely visible.

“Don’t say anything to him. It might make things uncomfortable. Greg’s already been causing trouble.”

Castiel rested his hand on her arm momentarily, as an expression of apology. She stiffened from the unexpected touch, but her smile conveyed it was from surprise and not rejection – in fact, she looked elated that he had initiated physical contact with her.

“I won’t. I am sorry.”

 “That’s ok, I-“

Across the balcony, the door to Sam’s room swung open and Dean, phone pressed to his ear descended down the stairs. He didn’t seem to notice their presence across from him. When he reached the grey square below, he wandered beneath the balcony, eventually coming to rest somewhere below them, but wandering in and out of their viewpoint as he paced while he spoke. His voice was far more animated than Castiel had become accustomed to in the past few days. In fact, even hearing him speak at all was something of a surprise, for he had been so reluctant otherwise with the task.

 “Please, I know you’re a tabletop player. If you’ve joined the live action crew, it’s gotta be because of a chick.”

He laughed loudly and without weariness at the response – it was so loud and genuine that Castiel was startled by it, and he didn’t manage to make out the voice that Dean was communicating with.

“I thought what happened at Comic-Con stayed at Comic-Con.”

There was a murmur at the end of the line, and suddenly Dean’s voice rose into its upper register: “a gold bikini? You’re kidding.”

There was almost a hint of the breathlessness to it that Castiel remembered used to be evident in Dean’s voice when... He quelled the boiling in his gut that marked the mental curse of the image that now shared the prize of provoking that reaction from Dean.

“Nice.”

There was another murmur.

“Hey, we’re both just as pervy as each other!”

He chuckled for a moment before he responded to the murmur: “yeah, yeah. I’m looking forward to the wedding. Hey, uh....” the joviality in his tone disappeared almost instantaneously, “how was it? Did you go see them today?”

The response was longer and drawn out, and Dean’s breathing changed markedly so that there was a slight shudder on each inhale and exhale. Castiel let his eyes drop over the balcony to where Dean stood by the Impala, slightly hunched and leaning against it with his left hand for support.

“That’s good. Did my delivery arrive in time?”

The murmur on the other end rose slightly in volume, but Castiel avoided tuning in, preserving his intention to give Dean his privacy until he was ready to overcome his evident discomfort with Castiel.

“I know, I just... it was her birthday.”

Another pause.

“I know! Look, I’ll do it myself next time. Things have gotten busy and I couldn’t get away, and I didn’t want to miss it.”

A longer pause.

“I didn’t call for a lecture, ok?”

Dean’s voice rose a little, and there was aggravation in his tone. It was a defeated kind of aggravation though, that rallied foolhardily against rationality.

“Cas?” Jessica turned to look at him, and she made a point of following his gaze to where Dean stood. “I think we’d better go back inside.”

She kept her voice low, evidently attempting to avoid drawing attention to the fact that they had heard the first part of Greg’s conversation, and the sudden downward turn it had taken.

Despite her efforts thought, the weight of Castiel’s wings was enough to cause the balcony to creak as they made their way back across it. When Dean heard them moving, he whirled at once, and for a moment there was a moment of complete vulnerability written across his face and his eyes shone. Then the windows were up and they deadened right before Castiel. In a second Dean’s face was stony and his features stiff. He murmured quickly into the phone: “gotta go”, but flicked it closed before he had even finished with the phrase. This time, Castiel discerned the voice on the other end of the line – light and female and confused – even if only momentarily before Dean ended the conversation. He kept his eyes fixed on Castiel that almost akin to a challenge, and Jessica waited out the silence until Castiel looked away before she tugged on his arm.

“Come on, Cas.”

When he looked back, Dean had turned away and was rubbing angrily at the back his neck. His phone was clenched in his fist, and his knuckles were white were the skin was tight with anger. But beneath that, in a way there hadn’t been in the days before, there was a kind of limpness. When Dean walked forwards, he dragged his feet slightly, instead of placing them. And when he dropped his hand from his neck, it fell weakly, rather than moving with deliberacy. And his head hung on his neck with a heaviness that Castiel did not recognize.

When Jessica tugged again, he moved with her. Whoever this Dean was, and whatever had happened to him, Castiel barely needed persuasion to look away.

 

 

 


	7. For No One Can Hear

** CHAPTER SIX **

** 2013 **

“Who was Greg speaking with?”

Castiel had held back the question for the duration of the afternoon, carefully displaying a nonchalance and disaffectedness about their earlier encounter. Dean, however, had no such sense of etiquette – an odd irony given that he himself had been the one to introduce Castiel to the behavior. The display of emotion, he said, where it was strong, regardless of its content, was not practiced in civilized circles.

The slight easiness that Dean had acquired earlier that afternoon, that meant he didn’t flinch at Castiel’s tiniest movement or wince at the commencement of his speech, dissipated instantaneously after the phone conversation. He didn’t return to Sam’s room for more than an hour, and when he did his face was once again entirely twisted into a contrived kind of stoniness, that formed a rocky jagged barrier between Castiel, and the golden warmth that was so characteristically _Dean._

And he was visibly uncomfortable again, curling in on himself protectively when Castiel spoke with Sam or Bobby or Jessica. Dean swallowed audibly multiple times while Castiel had tasted, chewed Sam’s concoction (entirely dutifully, for itleft much to be desired) swallowed his meal, before Jessica burst into laughter and punched Sam playfully on the shoulder before she, with wide eyes, scarpered up and called on her own phone for “pizza”.

Castiel had joined in the laughter at that. He understood that Sam had no difficulty having the joke of his cooking made at his expense, and he humbly acknowledged his utter failure with good grace. At Bobby’s description of the appearance of the dish as “fresh earthworms and stale dirt”, Castiel had properly joined in the laughter.

It promptly stopped when he caught Dean looking on at him in horror. Dean departed for the washroom soon after that.

After an afternoon of the question churning about in his stomach, Castiel had found the voice to ask it in that momentary reprieve. He supposed that he could have waited until the later evening, when Dean would presumably take his leave and return to his own accommodation. But in truth, the question was constricting around him with every moment it went unanswered, and twisting a dark and infested barb of fear directly into his gut.

So, upon the first moment he came upon, he asked it, regardless of the ill timing: “who was Greg speaking with?”

“Huh?”

Sam froze and raised his eyes to Castiel cautiously, ceasing his furious scribbling at the notepad.

“The person who Greg was speaking with. On his phone.”

Sam and Jessica’s eyes flickered to one another quickly across the seat upon which they had both been scribbling furiously in notebooks. Sam raised his eyebrows at Jessica, whose own brows furrowed in response.

“I don’t know, Cas.”

“Oh.”

When silence fell, neither Sam or Jessica continued with their scribbling, but watched him cautiously instead.

“Why do you want to know?”

Sam’s voice was altogether far too casual and, even with his eyes cast downward, Castiel heard the slap of a light reprimand from Jessica.

Castiel considered. He knew the true reason – he wanted to know of the woman that occupied Dean’s attention, in this time. It was selfish to feel envy – this Dean was not _his_ Dean. And even if he were, Castiel did not believe Dean should have owed him anything after his imprisonment. Dean, he hoped, had believed he was dead. Castiel loved him and he could never wish loneliness upon him. It would devastate him if the rest of Dean’s life had been waited out without company.

But with Dean so close, with the same gruff voice and light eyes and essence, at his heart, Castiel couldn’t help but feel a burn in his insides that for Dean to be so affectionate with another human was ruinous.

In truth, he didn’t know which would be worse. Reassurance that Dean had found someone to care for him, or that he hadn’t – and had been subjected to the torturous process of internalization that Castiel remembered from his own time in the forest.  In his years amongst his Father’s glorious creation, his time with Dean was the beacon that made the rest seem dreary in comparison. Even before Dean’s arrival, Castiel had known something was amiss. It, no doubt, would have consumed him eventually.

To conceptualize this reply for Sam and Jessica was impossible, however, even if they did indeed know that they were personally acquainted with the Dean of the story that had enraptured them over the past few days. So Castiel did what he could, and lied instead:

“Jessica and I accidentally came upon a conversation that I assume was intended to be private. I would like to apologize to Greg, but I am uncertain of the scale of my offence.”

“Oh”. Jessica’s features immediately relaxed and she leaned back into the soft seat upon which she rested. “Don’t worry about it, Cas. He just got a fright is all.”

Sam’s scribbling faltered slightly, which Castiel noted with a quick glance, but Sam covered it well and continued.

“Nonetheless, I should like to apologize.”

“It’s up to you, Cas. I wouldn’t bother – Greg’s –“

They were interrupted by Dean’s appearance at the window, and a light tap on the door. Sam left the seat and opened the lock for him, and Dean arrived a little more meekly than the day previously.

There was an awkward pause when Dean entered the sitting room and appraised the seating arrangements. Sam made the decision for him, by crossing the room to sit next to Castiel, who moved his wing obligingly.

There was no release of the tension that pulsed along the line of Dean’s neck, but he ambled quietly enough to seat himself next to Jessica and Bobby, who shuffled down to accommodate his bulk. Almost forgetting himself, Dean’s eyes flickered up to Castiel momentarily, before he wedged himself back further in the seat and took to considering his hands in his usual position.

“Greg. Before we begin, I-“

Castiel was silenced by the flicker of Dean’s eyes to meet his own. This time they held stoically and the gaze was controlled and level. Nonetheless, Castiel witnessed the bump of the apple at Dean’s throat bounce as he swallowed carefully.

Castiel mimicked the gesture unthinkingly before continuing, and felt his wings bristle at his back, which drew Sam’s attention (detectable from the slight shift on the seat beside him).

“I apologize for witnessing your conversation yesterday. I had no intention to trespass upon your privacy. Please forgive me.”

The apple bobbed again and the muscle at Dean’s jaw (so strangely active, these days) pulsed with the effort. Dean had to clear his throat minutely before speaking. Castiel noted it with a quizzical tilt of his head, remembering that such clearing was a rather nervous habit of Dean’s – one which he had seen many other times when Dean was under another type of gaze in a far more intimate circumstance. Now, it seemed, it had developed a different meaning.

Dean’s voice was low, and gruff, and uneven in tone, clearly being forced out as he spoke: “Thanks.”

It was abrupt, and to the point, and Jessica rolled her eyes across from him. But nonetheless, Castiel felt a small beam spread across his cheeks and tickle the corners of his mouth. It was unapologetically brief, stubborn and willful. But it was _Dean_.

…

** 1424 **

The right time to reveal himself properly to Dean was only a day later. Since Castiel had returned the horse, Dean had started to look at him differently. He let Castiel help him to the pot the next morning, when he woke needing to relieve himself. His tone was lighter and less encumbered. He offered to help Castiel with his winter preparations too. There wasn’t much he was capable of doing, but Castiel offered him a few torn sets of breeches (for Castiel couldn’t show him his customized shirts), and set him to work repairing the rips.

Dean was clumsy with a needle. His soldier’s hands weren’t made for delicate work, and his childish petulance at failure made Castiel smile and Dean laugh in return.

When their eyes caught, there was less wariness there. Dean was chattier too. He told Castiel about how Impala liked to be groomed, and about the cottage in which he lived. He even explained the necklace that he left around his neck at all times, even when washing – a gift from his brother when they were children. It wasn’t a lot of information, but it far exceeded anything else that Dean had volunteered in the four days previously.

The new openness made Castiel feel guilty. He was still careful to only stand facing Dean, and he snuck out in the evenings to stretch his wings and to leave kill for the Angels on a feeding post he had established not far from his home. Knowing he was doing so only a few hundred meters from where Dean waited calmly, having chosen to trust him, felt false. He’d never carried out deceit before, and he found he didn’t have the taste for it.

The afternoon of the eighth day after Dean’s arrival was the time he had chosen. He’d checked over Dean’s stitches. The skin had sealed tentatively, and he provoked a smile from Dean in telling him that in a few more days, he would find it easier to put weight on the leg. It wouldn’t be long before he could travel around the house more easily, and he would be able to walk outside and see Impala.

After Dean had settled in his bed, needle in hand again, Castiel chose to speak.

“Dean. There is something that we must discuss.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, and he held the breeches up in front of him. He’d managed to sew the two legs of the breeches together with a misguided stitch somewhere. Grimacing, he began counting back the stitches, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

“I’m listening.”

Castiel took a deep breath. “Since you’ve been here, Dean, I haven’t been completely honest with you, about who I am.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do?”

Dean looked up and met his eyes. “Well, it’s obvious you’re hiding something. You’ve been sneaking around all week. I was a bit wary at first, but…” he stopped, having found the offending stitch, and attacking it with the small knife Castiel had given him for cutting the threat “you haven’t tried to kill me yet.”

“No.” Castiel smiled. “And I don’t intend to. It would do you well to remember that, before I am honest.”

“Are you a deserter?”

“What?”

“Did you desert a squad? Where are you from? Randur, or Medas maybe?”

“Yes, I did desert, in a sense.” It was the obvious assumption to make, based on what Dean knew of him.

“Don’t be afraid to say if you are. I would… well, I’d understand.”

“You would?”

“The Road… it’s not for everyone. Some people, like me, we’re in it for life. It’s not just a job, it’s a cause. But for others, they don’t know what they’re getting into. Once you’re in, service doesn’t give you many exit opportunities. Not everyone wants to die at the hands of some beast. They shouldn’t have to. People deserve to enjoy their lives.” Having unpicked the problematic stitches, he recommenced with the needle, stabbing aggressively through the fabric as though it had personally offended him, the tip of his tongue just breaching his lips at the corner of his mouth.

“But you don’t see yourself that way.”

Dean nodded but kept his eyes on his careful stitches.

“The Road is what I am.  It’s what I’m made to do. I’ll ride it until the end of the line.”

The weight of his fallen comrades only days previously hung in the air between them. The end of the line was not so far away as Dean’s light tone suggested, they both knew.

Castiel paused and swallowed. “I’m not the kind of deserter you’re imagining though.”

“What, are you from further North? I’ve gone that far a few times. I know the cities. Which one?”

“I’m not from a City.”

“Huh?” He looked up.

“I’ve always lived in the wilderness. In one place or another. The forest has been my home for a long time.”

“Did your family live in the forest?”

“They still do.”

“Where? Why don’t you live with them? Are they dead?”

“I wish they were. Dean, I…”He stopped and took a shaky breath in. His heart was squeezing in his chest.

“I’m sorry. That was… rude.”

“No, Dean. I’m not offended. It’s just…” He took another breath, steeling himself. “What I’m about to tell you. Or show you, rather. It will change what you think of me. It may make you afraid of me, or hate me. I will need you to… stay calm, and give me a chance to explain myself, before you react. Can you do that?”

Dean paused mid-stitch and met Castiel’s eyes, curiously. He looked like he’d just been asked if he could count to three.

“Uh, yeah. I can do that.”

“Good.”

Castiel crossed the room, and opened the door of the cottage.

“Where are you going?”

“It will be easier if I am outside when I show you. I need the space.”

Dean squinted at him and cocked his head. He pulled himself up on his cane as Castiel walked down the stairs and out into the pasture. He saw Dean arrive at the threshold, and lean against it for support.

“How are you supposed to explain from all the way over there?” He called.

“Just… watch, Dean.”

Facing Dean, eyes down, he slowly removed his furs. His wings bristled a little, and he felt the feathers puff out as they enjoyed their first taste of open air. Looking up at Dean, he bit his lip nervously and took a deep breath, before slowly allowing his wings to unfold. They rose at his sides, slowly and jerkily, until they were stretched to their full capacity. Two shadows of black against the warm pink of the dusk that was falling in the sky behind him.

Dean stared for a few seconds. Even from the distance, Castiel could see how his body jolted with the realization of what he was seeing, before it froze in shock in the doorway. Castiel opened his mouth to call out to Dean, maybe to reassure him. He wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. A moment later, Dean reacted, slamming the door shut. Castiel could hear him bolting it from the inside.

He let his wings drop and crossed the pasture back to the door. Standing beside it, he knocked a few times at the door.

“Dean? I promise, I won’t hurt you. And I won’t try to force my way in. When you’re ready, we can talk. What you’ve seen. It doesn’t change anything. You can still trust me. My only intention is to help you heal and return to your home safely.”

He settled on the steps that lead to the cottage entrance.

“I’ll wait here. As long as you need.” The second statement was a mere murmur, and judging from the bustling inside, Dean wasn’t listening in any case.

Dusk fell while he waited. He wrapped his wings and the fur around himself for warmth, for when the darkness had descended the winter chill had worsened. He’d heard Dean moving around inside the house at first. At some point, he’d settled on his chair, for Castiel had heard it groan as it slid against the floor.

Eventually, he grew nervous and moved around to the side of the house. Carefully, so as not to disturb Dean, he looked around and through the window.

The chair was positioned next to the dining table, but it was empty. Castiel cast his eyes around the room, but saw no sign of him. Heart starting to thump in his chest, he hurried around to the front window. He couldn’t see Dean in his bed either.

There was a possibility he could have gone to the cellar. Castiel knew that. But he’d also seen that Dean had removed his sword and scabbard from where Castiel had left them, by his hunting knives. And he’d noted that a fur had been removed from the bed where Dean slept.

His breathing unsteady, he ran around the side of the house. He knew what he would find before he got there, but the sight still resulted in a jolt of fear deep in his stomach.

The barn door was open, and Imapla was gone.

…

Castiel only took minutes to prepare. He didn’t have time for anything more.

Dean was clever – it would be more than a matter of following the obvious trail, if Castiel wished to recover him. Castiel could take days to locate him in the woods. With Dean’s leg in the state it was in, he might need medicine and Castiel doubted he would be able to source himself much food. Worse than that, with darkness having fallen, his troubles might be more immediate. There were plenty of Angels in the area. Perhaps not in the immediate vicinity, but with Castiel’s feeding practices, they would be around. And Dean was bound to ride through them at some point, armed with nothing but his sword and foolhardiness.

Equipped with his two largest hunting knives, the blade he had once used for battle, and a small satchel with dried meat and a water skin, Castiel took flight only a few strides from the house. Dean had been careful to lead Impala at a walk, rather than a gallop, away from the barn. Her hooves hadn’t marked the ground. But Dean had underestimated the animalistic quality of Castiel’s senses. It didn’t matter, but it did slow Castiel down. He would have preferred to start with a visible trail. But instead, he would have to rely on smell.

It took him around 10 minutes to smell out their route, for it wasn’t what Castiel had expected. Dean must have been planning to give Castiel a wide berth, instead of taking the most direct path back to the City. Presumably he meant to loop around, and join the Road eventually. Perhaps he hadn’t even intended to go in the direction of his own city, and was instead bound for Etrea. It was a good plan. The route wasn’t much further than that to Ardus. And, as a Slayer, help would await him there.

Castiel stayed close to the trees, in order to try and keep up with Dean’s scent. He tracked it for an hour, without any sign of him. He’d had a decent head start, and the mare was fast. But Castiel believed that his injury would eventually force him to slow. His most sensible option was to find shelter for the night, and proceed in the morning.

Two hours in, he lost Dean’s scent for a while. The path had followed a fairly direct line to Etrea, and Castiel had begun to fly more aggressively, abandoning his careful tracking. When he’d become aware of the loss, Castiel had had to retrace his flight path for several miles, before he caught it again. Dropping to the forest floor, he could see where Dean had stopped. By a spring, presumably to water Impala. He’d waited there too, under the shelter of the tree canopy. He must have known Castiel had passed over, for the trail then turned sharply to the left, almost doubling back on itself (no doubt, this was Dean’s intention) before eventually making a ninety degree turn, and setting off towards the East.

Castiel took flight again following the scent for another half an hour before he saw fit to land again. The reason was a worrisome one. He had smelled the tang of blood in the air. At first, he fretted he was too late, but there was no major spill in the area. The likely reason was that Dean had done what Castiel feared, and ridden too vigorously. The wound may have reopened. If that were the case, the pain would overwhelm him soon. Perhaps it was already too much.

He was more anxious when he took to the sky for the third time. He kept close to the scent, sensing Dean would have had to slow and may now have determined that hiding was his best tactic. He hopped from tree to tree, trying to sense for a disturbance.

Eventually, the trail came to an end, as the first had, and he had to descend to the forest floor. It took an hour of searching to realize what had happened. Dean had tricked him again. Castiel found a small, bloody thumbprint on the bark of a tree along the path.

Dean had deliberately marked the area with blood, and doubled back on himself. At the smell, Castiel had incorrectly assumed that he was incapacitated. But that wasn’t the case. Castiel had slowed his pace of pursuit, which (if Dean were still able) had given him an hour of riding ahead of Castiel.

But it also made Castiel nervous. Dean had correctly guessed he would be using his sense of smell. It was a trait he shared in common with his brothers and sisters. But, as far as Castiel could tell, their senses were far more acute. If Castiel had smelt the blood from the skies, then his brothers and sisters would have too. Dean was taking a huge gamble in relying on his skills of concealment. Castiel knew from the days he had watched Dean on the Road, that he was capable of doing so to great effect. But the freshness of the blood would be easy for an Angel to seek out, regardless of visual trickery.

Castiel didn’t believe the tactic would pay off, and the urgency of his search increased.

For his fourth flight, his ears were open. He listened for any major disturbance in the sounds of the forest – any sound of enthusiasm or alarm that indicated his brothers and sisters believed a prize was near.

The forest was still quiet, but it felt like the calm before the storm. The scent was getting stronger as Castiel followed. He was certain now that Dean’s wound had re-opened during the course of the ride. Its smell, along with whatever wound he had inflicted upon himself to pull the distraction stunt earlier, had combined to produce a fairly pungent odor, at least to Castiel’s senses. There was no way his brothers and sisters could miss it.

He didn’t know whether to sigh in relief, or scream in terror when he located the cave where the scent was concentrated. It was too strong now. Strong enough to actually attract the Angels from further than the immediate vicinity. They might even sense it from a mile away.

Castiel stumbled as he landed, he cast his eyes around the clearing. There were two cave mouths opening under a small cliff. They looked to lead to two separate passages.

He scrambled into one, tucking his wings behind him.

“Dean? If you are hiding here, you need to reveal yourself to me immediately!”

The cave was studiously quiet. It didn’t matter. Castiel could smell the blood more strongly now, the further he progressed into the tunnel. “Dean. Unless you want to die, you will answer me!”

There was an answering whimper from the darkness to his left. Stumbling forward, Castiel’s foot connected with an outstretched leg, and there was a low moan that reverberated around the chamber, sending ice into Castiel’s bloodstream. Even contained within the walls of the cave as it was, it was too loud, and too pained.

“Did you burst the stitches?”

Castiel crouched down, just able to make out Dean’s features in the darkness. He’d thrown the fur over his body, and he’d clearly rubbed it in some waste he’d found somewhere. Presumably it was to mask the scent, but it hadn’t worked as effectively as he’d hoped.

Castiel ripped it from him, along with the sword he held in his hand, and threw them down by his side. Then he reached out, searching for the injured leg in the darkness.

“Get away from me.”

“I don’t have time for this”, Castiel hissed. His grip tightened on the calf he had managed to grab, and he ran his hands roughly up the leg, feeling for the dampness of the burst wound. “I could smell you a mile away. The fur isn’t helping. Your scent will lead them straight here.”

“I set up a false trail, miles back.”

Castiel found the damp spot where the blood was leaking. As his hands grazed it, Dean hissed.

“And it worked so well for me, didn’t it? They’ve got all night to look for you. Don’t you think they’ll figure it out?”

He could hear Dean’s shaky breaths, and he knew he was struggling with the pain. The nature of the ride was enough to exhaust a man, but Dean had done it all with a muscle had been pulled apart only a few days ago.

Dean grabbed at his wrist and pushed it away. Castiel could hear him scrabbling at the cave floor in the darkness, searching for his weapon.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill you. I’ve killed your kind before.”

“Oh I doubt that.” Castiel said darkly.

“I’m a Slayer. You know what that means.”

“You’re a fool. If you’d waited a few days you’d have been able to ride better. And you would have had my trust. You might have actually gotten away. As it is, you’re about to get us both killed.”

“At least I’ll have your death to my name. Monster.”

Castiel stopped his rustling. “So this is the thanks I get for saving you?”

“You shouldn’t have.” Dean groaned as he tried to sit himself up, and lean away from Castiel and against the hard wall.

Castiel reacted then, surging forward, and pressing his forearm against Dean’s airway. Dean struggled, but in his weakened state, it wasn’t much of a battle.

“This how you repay me? I risked everything for you! You were dead.”

He heard Dean wheeze as his hands scrabbled at Castiel’s unrelenting press against his windpipe.

“I put my life on the line to get you to my home. When your mare was tired, I carried you myself. And I healed you. Knowing it might cost me everything. That I might turn, like them, for having compassion for you.” Castiel hissed at Dean in a vicious whisper, and he felt the pound of Dean’s heartbeat become frantic and urgent, beneath his arm. “And you throw your life away on some foolhardy escape? After I’ve only given you reason to trust me?”

Castiel pulled his forearm away, and pushed Dean viciously by his shoulders back against the wall when he tried to scramble forward for his weapon again. Then he replaced his forearm with the curl of his hand, and he squeezed around Dean’s windpipe, and crooked his fingers so that they cut of the blood flow to his brain.

“For hundreds of years I have done nothing but try and bring peace to you and your people. And you would call me monster, and slay me if you could?”

He reached to his waist and pulled out a knife, placing it in Dean’s hand and held it against his throat. Dean struggled feebly against him, although between his injury and the loss of oxygen, the attempt was futile.

“Slay me then, Slayer. Look at me and slit my throat. If you think all I am is an animal then gut me like one! I’d welcome death if I could.”

He let go of Dean’s throat and gathered the loose shirt at his chest, jolting Dean forwards away from the wall. Dean cried out at the abrupt movement, which he must have felt in his injured leg. As Dean gasped in the air he had been deprived of, Castiel felt the knife at his throat tremble with uncertainty.

Castiel growled and reached for the wounded leg again. Dean tried to jerk it away, but Castiel held firm, leaning in to the touch of the blade. He could almost feel his eyes blaze in his sockets as he stared at Dean, burning with every ounce of frustration his circumstance had ever dealt him.

“Are you going to do it or not?”

Dean pressed the knife closer to Castiel’s throat and growled, but went no further. In the hand at Dean’s chest, Castiel could not sense any preparedness in his muscles as he tensed to apply the killing pressure.

Castiel held his breath and reached to his chest with both of his hands, unknotting the satchel he’d strapped across it. The press of the knife against Castiel’s throat became a little stronger, but still, Dean made no movement to properly attack.

Castiel placed the satchel in between them and rustled there, extracting the dried fox meat from where he had wrapped in a rag at the base.

 “Did you use blood from your leg on those trees?”

“…No.” Dean’s voice was softer now, and it wavered slightly, whispering across Castiel’s face. Apparently noticing its uncertainty, he readjusted his grip on the knife and rotated it, so that the sharp blade pressed just into Castiel’s neck. It may have nicked the skin at the tip.

“Then where?”

Dean pressed his other hand into Castiel’s chest.

“I cut my hand open with a knife.”

Castiel seized it and ran his fingers along the gash. Dean’s hand shuddered once at the rough handling, though he stayed silent. It wasn’t deep, and the blood had congealed, stemming the flow.

“I need you to re-open it.”

Dean stared at him in the darkness for a long while, breathing harshly. Eventually, with a gulp, he withdrew the knife from Castiel’s throat and slid it across his palm. Castiel could hear his breathing change and the sound of a hiss being stifled in Dean’s throat at the wet parting sound of his skin re-opening.

“Rub the blood on this meat. Get as much as you can on it.”

Dean did as he was told, curling his hand to increase the flow of blood. He let it run onto the meat , before picking it up and massaging it into the flesh with his fingers. While he worked, Castiel removed his shirt, and tore it into a strip.

He knew it wasn’t efficacious to be angry at Dean at the present moment - they had more pressing matters of concern. But that didn’t stop him from bandaging the thigh roughly, and without much care. He was almost satisfied when his brutish treatment earned a grunt from Dean and a few swallowed gasps.

When he was done, he pushed the thigh unceremoniously to one side and felt Dean’s body wince with the pain of it, stiffening against the wall before relaxing weakly and feebly, so that he was slumped against it. Castiel leaned forward, keeping his voice low, aware that the light outside of the cave was dying faster by the second.

“Are you done yet?”

Dean’s chest ceased its expansions and contractions as Castiel pushed into his personal space, and felt roughly across Dean’s chest until he located Dean’s hands, now limply holding the moist meat.

Without removing Dean’s hand from the carcass, he raised it to his nose and inhaled carefully. As Castiel ran the tip of his nose along the flesh, he lightly grazed Dean’s icy fingers, and he felt them twitch against his cheek.

“That’s good enough. We don’t have any more time.”

Dean’s grip loosened on the meat and he let it drop into Castiel’s hands. At once, Castiel rocked back upon his heels and left Dean to exhale the breath he had been holding. Dean used his free hands to adjust himself, and the weakened leg dragged across the gravel of the cave floor. Castiel grabbed at the ankle and held it still as he felt his wings prickle and the feathers ruffle.

Dean stopped breathing instantaneously and Castiel felt his body go carefully limp under his hands. However foolish Dean had been hitherto, he was a soldier, and he knew how to preserve himself, relaxing and quieting the panic, rather than letting it take over him.

After a few minutes of silence, Castiel continued his preparations without mention of the incident to Dean, grabbing at the ruined fur and pushing it into Dean’s lap. It must have been the rush of the wind, rather than wings. It didn’t matter. It was only a matter of time before the cave was discovered.

“Get your scent on it.”

Dean didn’t bother to protest, but instead commenced rubbing the fur across his chest. Castiel grabbed at the hand and stopped him with a growl.

“On the points where your scent is the strongest. Neck, armpits, and crotch. Piss on it. If you have any sense, you’ll be needing to anyway.”

Dean raised the festering thing to his face at once and started rubbing it against his neck in carefully kept silence. When Castiel turned his back, he heard the sound of Dean frantically unlacing his breeches and dull trickle of Dean’s waste against the fabric.

He left Dean to it and made his way quickly to the mouth of the cave, hunting knife in hand. The chances of finding a fresh kill at this point were weak, but it was worth the few minutes it might cost him if he was successful.

He had very little meat, and to perfect the trick of distraction, he would need more substance beneath the fur armed with Dean’s scent, especially if he didn’t want the Angels (who would certainly be unsated with his offering as it currently stood) to turn their attention to the mare, wherever she was hidden.

He was lucky. With night falling, animals were stirring and settling, and in their partially altered states, Castiel was able to locate within a few minutes some settling birds. He only caught two, and that was only because they were old and slow. But, with the urgency of the situation, it was a victory. As was his way, he apologized when he broke their necks and promised them deliverance unto his Father, as he had in the old days. What their fates were now, he did not know, and the thought, despite the oncoming assault from his brothers and sisters, made tears sting at the back of his throat.

Dean had dragged himself to the mouth of the cave by the time Castiel had returned, and, correctly anticipating Castiel’s intention, had thrown the fur and the meat into the midst of the clearing. Castiel retrieved it, and at once took to a small path alongside the rocky formation that created the cave. He left the fur there, covering the meat, and tore the birds apart quickly to leave the stink of death across the thing.

The plan was, that in proximity to their hiding place, Dean’s scent would be confused with the corpses (and the bloody meat Castiel had had him prepare would assist this, mixed in with the small feast). He hoped, however fruitless it was, the Angel’s alert wouldn’t be raised to the strong presence of his scent in the air. It was a risky strategy, but Castiel had little else to do.

There was rustling in the trees by the time he made his way back to the mouth of the cave. Dean had been hard at work with a stick in the dirt in the interim, and a number of protective sigils were lightly carved into the soil.  Castiel stopped at them, immediately imagining that Dean’s hateful streak had returned, and he intended to leave Castiel to the mercy of his brothers and sisters in the clearing. But before he properly had the chance to comprehend that realization in his gut, there was a whisper from the back of the cave.

“To your right”.

When Castiel turned his head, he at once noted that the sigil to the far right of the mouth of the cave was incomplete, awaiting only one final line drawn across its centre. Quickly, and without hesitation, he crossed the sigils (rendered redundant in the face of the one deliberate error). Dean had left the stick propped up against the side of the cave, and Castiel at once provided the extra sigil in the dirt and felt a wave of force at once rear up, grazing the tip of his nose.

Quietly, he crept to the back of the cave. “It’s not guaranteed to keep them out, you know. Anything could disturb the dirt”

Dean’s whisper was small and meek: “I know.”

Castiel didn’t bother to speak then as he made his way to where Dean had positioned himself – at the back of the cave, legs splayed out in front of him. It was a dead end, but it was the only place they had to seek refuge in now. Dean was in no condition to run if it came to it.

“They might still be able to smell you.”

“I know.”

Castiel exhaled slowly, considering their options, should the mouth be breached. It would depend on their warning and the number of Angels I pursuit. He didn’t know where the mare was kept – Dean had had managed to obscure her scent with his own, in his stupidity.

“I’m sorry.”

Castiel didn’t even bother to respond, despite the crack in Dean’s voice, so unfamiliar in light of the days Castiel had spend observing him in the heat of the deep forest, guiding his men with certainty and courage and infallible leadership.

Instead he merely extended his left wing to its full length, at least as far as he could in their enclosed space. It wasn’t far, but it was enough to create a small C curve that would have formed a clear invitation, had they not been nestled in darkness.

“Come here.”

There was a slight rustle as Dean’s body stiffened atop the gravel.

“No.”

“You either live or you die. Your scent is still strong.”

Dean was silent, but his breathing grew harsher and there was an audible gulp in the darkness.

Then the first scream cut across the night sky.

Dean moved quickly, but carefully. His movements were stiff, which indicated his small exertions to reach the mouth of the cave had entirely drained him. Still, gritting his teeth, he carefully and quickly pulled himself towards Castiel and burrowed his head directly into the deepest part of Castiel’s wing, presumably heeding Castiel’s advice and attempting to disguise his thickly scented neck.

Castiel curled his wing around Dean, and pulled without care at his injured leg so that it was tucked up against Dean’s chest in a ball. The position was clearly agonizing, and Castiel felt a slight bite at the base of his wing where Dean stifled a yell. The bite wasn’t deep, but it stung and for a moment his wing stiffened so as to constrict dangerously tight around Dean’s head and neck.

When Dean started he immediately relaxed the hold and brought his right wing ground to wrap around the first, and to doubly mask the injured leg, which had unwisely been left on the outside of their arrangement. Without mercy, Castiel leaned forward so that, underneath his wings, Dean was pressed against the cold stone wall of the cave, intending to use the thickness of the cave’s walls to additionally mark the scent.

The screams were multiple now, and they rose higher in a frenzy and a frantic chorus that signaled they had stumbled onto the hunt. They weren’t immediately close, but with every passing minute they came closer, until the echoes of the screams began to reverberate more strongly around the clearing.

There was a critical mass. That was certain. The scent of human blood, so obligingly spread through the forest, was unusual and whet their appetites like nothing else. It wasn’t long before the sounds of the Angelus arriving in the clearing became apparent at the back of the cave.

Dean  kept his body carefully relaxed against Castiel’s, and allowed himself to wind into the space, avoiding letting the adrenalin change his breathing pattern or increase the amount of sweat that was accumulating in those particularly scented places along his body. Castiel carefully did the same, letting his mind go carefully blank and avoid the rising horror that threatened to expel the contents of his stomach, and give a bright luminescent marker as to their whereabouts.

Amidst the screams, the sounds of rustling and his own internal struggle to contain his very humanity, it was a long and seemingly endless night.

 


	8. The Thrum Of Your Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Merry Christmas Eve! My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. Sometimes real life gets in the way of a rigid update schedule - in this case, real life was a lovely stray pup we found wandering a massive intersection by the motorway, who was likely minutes away from being hit, being too terrified by car horns to leave the area and skittlishly darting between oncoming cars. My friend who was with me in the car pulled off a heroic rescue effort, and armed with nothing more than a lollipop, we managed to lure him into the car. The last two days have been a flurry of appointments, in an attempt to get him checked out for diseases, find any owner that may exist, and find a place for him in a shelter (all of which are full this time of year and refusing to accept strays). It's been very stressful, as we've been trying to avoid taking him to the pound at all costs, since his fate there is certain, and he is a wonderfully natured boy, whose only fault so far (aside from being uneducated in the ways of walk on leash, sit and stay) is that he is woefully desperate for attention -he has tripped many a family member up by weaving between their legs as they try to walk around the house.
> 
> Hopefully we have pulled off a Christmas miracle for our little boy - last night he met with a potential owner, and failing that, we will drive him to a shelter owned by a friend, which is three hours out of Auckland, where we have been assured he will be kept safely.
> 
> So again, apologies for late update. Also, pre-emptive apologies for what will likely be an erratic update next week too - I will be away at the beach for two weeks, and will be relying on the internet access of the local library. Their hours are fairly lax around Christmastime, so it may be that I have to update early or late. Be assured though that this story is still chugging along, and there are still a number of pre-written (unedited chapters) acting as a buffer to my Christmas-induced laziness.
> 
> Thank you for your reviews and support, enjoy your holidays and have a wonderful new year!

** CHAPTER SEVEN **

** 1424 **

It wasn’t until mid-morning that Castiel felt safe enough to unfurl his wings from where they were pressed to the cave’s wall. Dean grumbled as he was jostled, having only fallen into a nervous and twitchy sleep a few hours earlier. When he properly remembered his circumstance however, he stiffened and withdrew his head from where it was nestled at Castiel’s stomach.

Slowly and carefully, Castiel pulled them back from the cave wall. He did it out of concern for Dean’s injury than fear for their circumstance. His brothers and sisters had appeared in the night, and had howled at the cave’s entrance for hours. It appeared Dean’s scent had been smothered sufficiently, since they had not attempted to breach the entrance. In the early hours of the morning, they had dissipated and Dean had fallen asleep.

Dean hissed in earnest as his stiffening leg was forced to make the minutest movement and in the morning light, Castiel could see his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweet and a pale yellow tinge. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, but Dean was certainly in a far poorer condition than he had been the day when he had been housed in Castiel’s cabin.

Once Dean was free to move, Castiel became more careless. He left Dean to maneuver himself from the embrace and drag himself to the wall, afraid to cross a boundary with a helpful touch or assistance and break the tenuous trust that Castiel hoped had reemerged after the night’s events. Dean righted against the stone there with a series of grunts and stifled moans, and when he was at last seated with his back against the cave, he let his head fall backwards and his eyes closed. Castiel watched as Dean gripped the uppermost part of his thigh with both hands and made a throttling gesture, as though he intended to squeeze the pain out of it.

 “I’m going up to survey the area. You should stay here.” Castiel was monotonous when he breached the silence that they had been blessed with for the past few hours.

“Does it look like I’m going anywhere?” Dean didn’t open his eyes, but he waved a hand feebly at the injury. In the morning light as it filtered through the cave air, Castiel could see where the wound had bled through in the night. Luckily, the blood had appeared to have congealed, and the dark brown-red patch on the makeshift bandage was limited in circumference.

“Is that sarcasm?”

Dean didn’t answer.

Castiel stared at him for a long moment, before turning and making his way to the mouth of the cave. At the entrance, he skipped stones across the dirt until the sigils were disturbed enough that he could breach the threshold. Not sensing any Angels in the vicinity, he went to the centre of the clearing, where he would have the easiest upward path between the trees towards the sky.

He could feel Dean’s eyes on him as he unfolded his wings and let them stretch and shiver, releasing the tension that had accumulated after last night’s stiff and nervous positioning. His feathers bristled in response to Dean’s gaze and beneath them, he felt the skin prickle and itch. The sensation was entirely unnerving and unwelcome, and he only endured it momentarily before allowing his wings a few strong flaps and extracting himself from the circumstance.

He stayed in the sky longer than necessary. There weren’t any visible threats on the horizon, at least, that made themselves apparent from his searching efforts. It appeared that Angels had been sated enough by his offering last night that they had retired for the day. That didn’t mean there was no danger to be had in the forest, but the fact that his brothers and sisters had left the vicinity made him a little more comfortable.

Even after Castiel had cleared the area, he remained in the sky, bracing himself for his return. In truth, he stayed away because he felt hurt and frustrated by Dean’s manner. He’d thought that last night, keeping him in such proximity and going to such dangerous efforts, might have restored a little of the trust he seemed to have violated in revealing himself. The fact that Dean had relaxed enough under the shelter of his wings, practically in an embrace, had given Castiel hope that some camaraderie might be restored by the next morning, and he could persuade Dean to return with him to his cottage. But from their momentary exchange, it seemed Dean intended to remain cool and untrusting. To his likely peril.

Sighing, Castiel returned to the clearing. He studiously avoided looking to the cave mouth, avoiding acknowledging Dean until his wings were firmly flattened behind his back. When he returned, Dean hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open and they followed Castiel’s movements carefully.

“Our path is clear.”

“Path to where?”

“Whichever path you wish to take.”

Dean froze and looked up at him. “You’re asking me?”

Castiel shrugged and crouched beside Dean to collect the tools that he had lost in the night’s darkness. He refused to make eye contact with Dean as he spoke: “My intention is to return to my cabin. You are at liberty to travel where you will. If you come with me, I will treat your leg, and provide you with shelter until you are able to travel to your city. With the damage you have done, that will not be until after the snows.”

He turned, still crouched, and faced Dean. “If you wish, you can ride to your city now. I won’t stop you.”

Dean was silent for a long while, and Castiel stared at his hands, which were clutched into fists at his sides, nestled into the gravel of the cave’s floor.

“I understand then. Here.” He passed Dean the satchel he had packed with the waterskin, and his blade. “I doubt this will save you, but you are welcome to it.” He stood up briskly and walked towards the mouth of the cave again, letting his wings loosen at his back once again in preparation for flight.

He clenched his jaw once he was out of Dean’s sight, fighting the burn that he felt behind his eyes. This whole enterprise had been for nothing then. He was far closer to oblivion than he had been before, and with nothing to show for it. Dean would die before he could reach a city. If he weren’t eaten, it would be from dehydration or infection. His city would be left without a leader and his brother without a family.

And Castiel would be alone too, only now equipped with a tantalizing reminder of how it felt to be otherwise. Maybe, in time, he’d come to believe it had been worth it. Not for trying to save a human, but for bringing him closer to the Change. Consciousness of his circumstance was fast becoming too much of a burden. If he was going to suffer insanity, he might prefer that of his brothers and sisters. At least they were with one another in the darkness.

“Wait.”

Dean’s voice was light, and uncertain. Castiel stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

“Look… I’m sorry. When I saw… I,… I was… I didn’t know what to think. I’ve spent almost my whole life learning to fight and kill those things.”

Castiel closed his eyes, a knot twisting his stomach at the thought that his brothers and sisters might be so spoken of. _Things_.

“When I saw your…” Dean cleared his throat, and enunciated the word like he couldn’t believe he was saying it “ _wings_ … all I could think of was them and the way they attacked my men. And I was… I’ve seen those things tear people apart.”

Castiel turned his head, so he could see Dean out the corner of his eye. Dean was hanging his head, and he was still squeezing at his injured thigh.

“When you train to be a soldier, you learn to kill first, ask questions later… I should have… I should have asked the questions, and not just treated you like one of them.”

He looked up and met Castiel’s gaze, nervously, and he licked his lips before he spoke: “I want to ask questions now.”

“Why?” Castiel whispered. He turned and kept his eyes on Dean, feeling a tremble in his hands.

“I guess I didn’t think about the danger you put yourself in, to rescue me. I wasn’t grateful the way I should have been. I just wanted to get back to my men and Sammy.”

“And now?”

“Last night. You saved me. _Again_. Whatever you are, I owe you my life.”

The _whatever you are_ stung at Castiel and he felt a tingle in wings, as he became aware of how heavy they hung on his back. A barrier between him and the only species left he could find any companionship with.

“You still think of me as less than human, then?”

“No! No, not less. Just different.”

Dean pulled himself forwards to Castiel, dragging his leg on the ground and biting his lip as he scraped himself on the gravel.

“Cas. I want you to tell me what you are. And I won’t freak out this time.”

“What’s Cas?”

Dean started for a moment. “It’s a shortened version of you name. When humans trust one another, we give each other special names.”

“You trust me?”

“I… want to try to.”

Castiel dropped his face to conceal his smile. “Thank you, De.”

“De.?” Dean mouth curled, and he ceased moving across the ground.

“It’s a shortened version of your name. Like you said. To show that I will trust you too.”

Dean gave a nervous but genuine smile. “Let’s keep Dean, Cas. Everyone always calls me Captain, or Slayer anyway. Dean can be your nickname for me.”

“If that’s what you would prefer.”

Dean snickered: “Trust me, it really is.”

Castiel nodded and walked back to Dean, still keeping his wings self-consciously folded against his back. When he reached Dean, he crouched beside the wounded leg and reached towards Dean’s thigh. He kept his eyes on Dean’s as his fingers grazed the wound. If Dean was affronted by the contact without permission, he didn’t show it.

“So, uh…, where do we start?”

“What?” Castiel’s fingers traced the outline of the bandage, and he felt for dampness.

“With you… explaining what you are?”

“I think we start by taking you back to my cottage immediately, Dean. I need to assess your leg.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Will it be alright? It’s kind of important in my line of work, you know?”

He hissed as Castiel pressed too hard on a tender part.

“I am unsure whether I will have to stitch the wound closed again. Either way, I would prefer to have it out of this filthy cave. I don’t think you’d survive a second infection.”

“Shit. Do you have anything to clean it up with now?”

“No.” Castiel’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Unless you would allow me to urinate on it again.”

“OH! Ah, no… thank you. Friends don’t piss on friends, Cas.”

“Alright. But in that case, we need to start travelling straight away.”

“Yeah. That’s fine. Just let me…” He stopped in his shuffling and stared up at Castiel, horrorstruck. “Wait. What did you mean, _again_?”

Castiel took in his gaping mouth and repulsed expression. “I think as friends I would do best not to talk about that.”

“Oh God! That’s-” He caught himself and swallowed his disgust “Thanks Cas, you probably saved my life with that. Uh….but let’s never mention it again.”

Castiel didn’t’ even acknowledge the statement, but instead turned to the right of Dean, where his few weapons and satchel were laid out across the ground. He quickly assembled them and slid the weapons into their relevant pouches efficiently through force of habit. He felt Dean’s eyes on his hands as he worked, but Dean made no comment, and stayed completely still for the duration of the activity.

When he was prepared, and he had once again turned his gaze to Dean, Dean only responded with a sheepish grin. He gestured weakly to his leg.

“Guess I’m a bit ill-disposed to travel.”

Even though the wound had clotted, Dean’s utter reluctance to move it from the same position that he had established it at that morning demonstrated its true incapacity.

“Is your mare nearby?”

“Yeah. Uh, other passage.”

The mare came when Castiel whistled, as she had those nights ago in the forest. Still saddled, Castiel worried about the drying sweat beneath the leather. She was already suffering from sores. Nonetheless, with Dean in his state, Castiel had very limited chance for concern. The mare could recover later, when they were returned to his cottage.

The trip was long and arduous. Castiel all but lifted Dean onto the mare’s back, and he hung over her awkwardly, head on one side and legs on the other, for some time, until Castiel was able to right him.

Dean tired quickly. The trip took most of the day, and they travelled slowly. Last time, since Dean had been unconscious, Castiel had been able to travel at a breakneck pace, knowing Dean would be largely unaware of the pain. Now though, with Dean entirely awake and alert, he was privy to every little maneuver that caused Dean pain.

Atop Impala, Dean went through stages. At first, he stifled his protests by biting his lip and closing his eyes tight. When he tired of that, after several hours, Castiel was treated to a number of grunts and complaints. He ignored most, until Dean eventually fell silent, his body clearly realizing the redundancy of making its dissatisfaction evident.

Mercifully, they managed to return to Castiel’s cottage just after nightfall. They were awake for several hours cleaning and stitching the wound, which was carried out in an entirely exhausted silence. Dean was half-asleep by the time Castiel helped him back into the nest and wrapped the furs around him. Dean halted him with a touch to the arm and they bickered briefly about who should sleep in the nest. Eventually Dean settled, but he pressed one of the furs of the nest towards Cas and indicated he should curl up into it on the floor, rather than press his wings uncomfortably against the chair in the corner of the room.

Castiel was first to fall asleep, despite Dean’s having suffered a far more draining day than he had. Through bleary eyes, as he drifted off quickly, he caught a glimpse of Dean’s eyes wandering the expanse of his wings as they were wrapped around his body. This time, there was nervousness, and wariness, but the terror and hatred was gone. It was a blissful thought, that there might yet be trust to be had between them, before Castiel fell into a deep sleep almost akin to oblivion.

…

In the morning, Dean woke Castiel with his promised questions and only a vaguely apologetic expression. Castiel was still exhausted, not having had the chance to sleep in the cave as Dean had. He  grumpily handed Dean the account he had recorded on parchment ten years ago, before busying himself with preparing their breakfast, in lieu of being forced to exercise an exhausted voice. The account of Castiel, he who was once an Angel of the Lord. A miserable tale, and something he’d have preferred leaving until later in the day. Certainly, the thought of visiting its contents deprived him of any significant appetite.

When he was seated, with stale bread and dried fruit as their meal, Dean looked up from the parchment with wide eyes. “Cas. This is… I’m sorry.”

Castiel swallowed, and set about dividing their lots.

“Thank you, Dean. Your compassion is a comfort.”

Dean squinted at him, almost studiously, and Castiel was forced to look away, instead focusing his energy on cutting the stiff bread and laying it unceremoniously upon Dean’s plate. Dean ignored the offering, instead setting the parchment beside him carefully, and rubbing the top left corner of this page between his thumb and forefinger.

 “When… when did you write this?”

Castiel laid the breadknife beside him and set about arranging his own meal on his plate. It was a paltry sight.

“Only recently, but long after I separated from the last of my brothers. I don’t recall the exact date.”

He did, actually. But he made no mention of that. Existential desperation was not his preferred subject so early in the morning.

Dean’s exhalation of breath was a little shaky and when Castiel looked up at him. His jaw, which was hanging open slightly, gave a slight quiver, before abruptly shutting. Dean blushed a little, as though he had been caught doing something wrong.

“Do you know if any of them are still… around?”

“We have had no contact. I have not seen them in the form of the Angels in this forest. They may yet still have Grace.”

Staring at the parchment, Dean ran his thumb back and forth across his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was oddly muted, as though he were speaking through something.

“How long do you have left?”

Castiel sighed and set his bread back down upon his plate, not having yet taken a bite. Likely now, it would end up becoming a meal for the birds of the forest. His stomach had already forfeited it, and it churned instead, like hot ash was brewing there.

“I don’t know. From what I understand, there is something of an ache before the Grace depletes, and some feel weaker. But sometimes, others are taken unawares. I have been careful since I have lived here. I have only used it in exceptional cases.”

Dean swallowed and met Castiel’s eyes. They were glistening: “You used some of it on me, didn’t you?”

Castiel looked away and folded his hands neatly across his lap. Dean was quick. “Only a little. Healing comes naturally to Angels, so it wasn’t too difficult.” Even to himself, the lie was clear in his voice, which rose in its register and lost a little of its usual rumble. He expected, even if that weren’t the case, his carefully blank expression would raise Dean’s suspicions. “I used enough to purify your blood. You were dead otherwise. But I stopped short of properly closing the wound.”

Dean breathed out his name: “ _Cas_.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, during which Dean’s eyes did not move from Castiel’s face and Castiel stiffened under the examination.

“Thank you.” Dean finally spoke up. At first, his voice was so small that it was barely discernible, and he cleared his throat: “Thank you for saving me, despite what it might have cost you.”

Castiel smiled and pushed Dean’s plate towards him. “I was glad of it, Dean. I have felt impotent for too long.”

They were silent for much longer after that. Castiel even stood up for a while and prepared some tea for the pair of them, while Dean stared out the window at the dull winter light through the frosted grass.

When Castiel returned to the table, and set down Dean’s tea in front of him, he murmured: “I don’t want you to feel under any obligation to me.”

“Huh?”

“I saved you because I saw the inspiration you brought to your men. You are a strong leader, Dean. As soon as you are well, I want you to return to your city and continue to serve. You don’t owe me anything beyond your best efforts to let your body heal.”

Dean looked away from Castiel, and swallowed wearily. “Yeah Cas, if that’s what you want.”

There was a longer silence. Eventually, Dean picked up the parchment again, and read through it, his lips moving as he stumbled over the words. After a few minutes he stopped on a sentence, and looked up curiously at Castiel.

“What do you mean here: _We did not know then that it was not enough to save them?_ What were you trying to do?”

Castiel pressed the back of his palm to his mouth and breathed in heavily. Dean watched him carefully, and his mouth twitched several times before he spoke again.

“In the cave, you said you doubted that I’d killed your kind. Why would you…? You know what that means don’t you?”

He gestured to the clotheshorse at the back of the room, where Dean’s leather armor had been left to dry. The mark of the slayer, in red and black, faced towards the ceiling – a broadsword crossed atop of a ragged black feather.

Castiel swallowed and moved his hand to rub at his neck, feeling the hairs there bristle at the question. “I do.”

“Then…”

“I’m sure you suspect my meaning already.”

Dean’s mouth shut and his brow furrowed. “It’s not possible.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Then how?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean stared down at the table.

“My brothers and I, we speculated as to how such a thing could happen. And we experimented, for a long while.”

“You killed them?”

“Many. In variously and increasingly finite ways.”

“How did you know that they came back?”

Castiel replaced his palm at his mouth and inhaled carefully, willfully suppressing the stutters in his breathing that spoke to the shivering that had overtaken his body. When he spoke, he spoke through his hand at first, until Dean titled his head at him quizzically and he was forced to remove it.

“There are some, those who I was connected to closely before they… I can still recognize them, even in their forms. I think my Grace… knows them. They’re unrecognizable otherwise.”

Dean stared at him and didn’t answer.

“In the early days, we took them down wherever we could. We’d hoped to spare their torment.”

Castiel ran his thumb across his own cheek absently, feeling where the skin was swollen beneath his eyelids from lack of sleep.

“We would hold funerals for them. In imitation of your human custom. Some humans even helped us.”

Dean turned to look out the window at that.

“When they reappeared, we thought we were mad. We killed some again even and told ourselves they were others. Eventually, it grew too much to explain and my brother, Gabriel, witnessed it for himself.”

“How?”

Dean’s voice cracked, but he kept his eyes firmly at the window.

“He killed a creature and watched it. It took days, but eventually… it awoke. As though no harm had ever been done to it.”

Dean swallowed and Castiel felt himself imitate the gesture.

“We kept that one with us. We tried to decimate it more thoroughly. There were many attempts each more aggressive than the last. We cut it apart, and nailed it down. We burned it and spread its ashes in the ocean.”

This time Dean visibly swallowed bile.

“We’d wait for weeks. And then, all at once, it would be whole again, and seething. Every time we tried, our brother came back more insane and more vicious. Eventually, we buried him under an avalanche in the mountains, for we were afraid what he might do.”

“Did he?”

“I saw him, a few years ago.”

Dean retched properly this time, and Castiel fetched an empty waste bucket. There was nothing in Dean’s stomach to empty, but he spat up acid, and when he found himself fit to speak, its scratch was evident in his voice.

“There must be a…”

“None that I know of. I ripped them apart and buried the pieces, miles and miles away from one another. I beat them until they were nothing but pulp.”

“But…”

“The Gates of Heaven are closed, Dean.”

“What?”

“They’re closed. I believe that’s why they stay. There’s simply nowhere for them to go.”

Dean retched again, and Castiel tentatively made to touch his back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. While he spat out frothy saliva, Castiel continued. There was no point prolonging the inevitable explanation.

“I suspect that they are bound to their forms. They cannot exist incorporeally, because in their true form, they necessarily have to exist across multiple dimensions. No one dimension is enough to contain them unless they are restricted in a body’s form. Without access to heaven, there is only one dimension which they may inhabit.”

“What?”

“They are unbridled power and divinity, Dean. If they were to exist in their entirety here, the order of the universe would be disturbed. The sea would meet the sky, and the ground would combust. Everything here exists in a delicate, perfect balance. Even a minor disturbance would be catastrophic.”

Dean coughed up phlegm this time.

When he spoke, his voice was but a rattle: “how can they reassemble themselves though? I thought they had no Grace?”

“They do not. I do not know… The human body performs the most remarkable healing. If you could not die, I imagine even the most grievous wounds would heal eventually.”

“Not everything.”

“Sorry?”

Dean wiped at his mouth and looked up from the base of the bucket. “It can’t heal everything. I mean, if I took off your arm, it wouldn’t grow back. How can they… re-attach themselves? It’s not possible.”

“I don’t know. I don’t…”

Castiel sat slowly and kneaded at his temples with his free hand, the other still at Dean’s back. Dean hadn’t objected to its presence, but Castiel now felt frozen there, unsure of the appropriate time to withdraw.

Dean swallowed warily and set the bucket down. He ignored Castiel’s gesturing to his still full cup of tea and instead took to staring at him.

“I’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel looked up, and he watched Dean for a long while, who kindly returned his gaze until Castiel eventually looked away and busied himself cleaning the plates they had barely used. Dean attempted to help him from his seated position, but could do little more than push the plates and cups together into the centre of the table. He took to staring out the window again while Castiel replaced the still-consumable dried fruit in his stores and assembled the stale bread as scraps. When he took the empty water bucket and made his way to the door, he and Dean both turned to gaze at each other for a few seconds. There was an understanding there, perhaps the first understanding they had come to since Dean’s arrival at the cottage. There was nothing more that could be said on the matter.

…

It was the last time they spoke of Castiel’s sacrifice or his circumstance while Dean was staying with him, on that particular visit. Neither knew what to say. They both knew that what Castiel had done for Dean was profound, in light of the horrors that awaited him. But for all of that, they barely knew each other.

In being so unable to discuss what Castiel had done, it created an awkwardness at first. Dean was shy about asking Castiel for help in standing and sitting from his bed. And Castiel was nervous to assist him without his request. He could tell that Dean felt like he owed too much already, and every little service that Castiel performed seemed to weigh on his stature heavily. Perhaps it was the injury, but he took increasingly to sitting curled up in the bed, shoulders hunched and head hanging. His gaze was aimless and his face gormless, and for some time, it seemed some part of him had died.

Eventually, Dean became more talkative again. They only discussed trivialities – how Castiel organized his winter stores, how he’d designed the fake sigils that adorned their accommodation to trick the Angels from entry, and where he liked to hunt and gather in the forest.

Those topics created an easier relationship. And they enabled Dean to volunteer.

He told Castiel about Sam, and how he’d virtually raised him while his Father was on the Road. He explained how Sam had been taught his letters by a remarkable healer woman who lived on the outskirts of the City and he had in turn taught Dean, late at night, after Dean’s soldier’s training. Dean couldn’t contain his pride at Sam’s position as a scribe in the court – since he was not noble by birth, his selection had been virtually unprecedented. He moaned about Ruby to - the courtier that had caught Sam’s eye. They weren’t betrothed yet, and Dean was convinced that Sam could be brought to his senses. Though he worried about leaving him under her influence for so long.

“Is it betrothal of the lady in question that you object to?” Castiel inquired, cocking his head and squinting at Dean. Dean had described Ruby using a number of slang terms that Castiel was not familiar with. The venom with which Dean spoke suggested he did not see Ruby in a favorable light, although Castiel had been unable to discern the reason.

“Sammy’s always wanted it. And that’s fine for him. But with that bitch… Huh. It’s more like a death sentence.”

“I take it you are not betrothed then?”

Dean smirked at him. “I enjoy the perks of being an unattached man, Cas. It’d need to be someone pretty spectacular to tempt me from my wicked ways.”

He waggled his eyebrows at Cas knowingly.

Castiel wasn’t in the know though and his brow furrowed. “What do you do that is so wicked?”

“You know, Cas…” Dean winked again, and he clicked his tongue twice. At Castiel’s lack of response, he dropped his gaze awkwardly and instead took a swig of the mead Castiel had provided for him (Castiel had once recovered a few bottles from a raid, but had never found occasion to use them. Upon their discovery in Castiel’s stores, however, Dean had convinced him to try the substance. Castiel had no taste for it, and Dean had volunteered to remove the burden from him).

“Are you referring to intercourse?”

Dean spat his drink out across the table at Castiel. A few flecks of spittle made their way to Castiel’s face, and his eyelids twitched in self-defense. At first Castiel didn’t react, but when Dean looked appalled, he wiped the droplets away quickly.

 “Well, yeah. But when you say it like that, it sounds a lot less fun.”

Castiel paused for a moment. “Intercourse is a bad thing, amongst humans?”

Dean laughed out loud and took another drink from his tankard. “No. God no. It’s the best thing. But some in the City would disagree with me. They act like it’s a sin.”

“You don’t agree?”

“Pft. If it were a sin it wouldn’t be so damn awesome.”

Castiel gave a small nod, unsure of the appropriate response to this evident camaraderie. It appeared Dean assumed he had partaken in the activity. Whether it was appropriate to reveal that this was not the case was less certain.

“So there is no human you would wish to be paired with?”

Dean furrowed his brow at Castiel, and leaned back in his chair, eyes cast downward.

“I don’t know… I always figured I’d have to eventually, even if it’s just so that I don’t tarnish the family name for Sammy.” He chuckled darkly. “There’s a difference between choosing a woman to wake up to for one morning, and one to wake up to for the rest of your life.”

“I understand.”

“There’s one girl. I kinda always figured she’d be the one to pin me down.” His eyes flickered to Castiel and he smirked. “That wasn’t meant to be a pun.”

“What is her name?”

Dean started fiddling with his fingers, picking at the skin around the nails nervously. “Jo. Well, Joanna. We’ve known each other since we were kids. She works at the local alehouse. Her mother owns it. Father died on the Road.”

“Do you love her?”

Dean spluttered, and he quickly picked up his tankard again, resuming an air of careful masculinity. “No! I mean… she’s like a sister, you know? An annoying one. When I started training, she used to climb on the ramparts and watch. We’d practice together afterwards. And she’d kick my ass seven ways to Sunday.”

“Are women not allowed to train as soldiers? That is a waste of their abilities.”

Dean grinned and took another drink.

“You know, that’s what she says. As far as I’m concerned it’s a loss to the service. She’s quicker ‘n deadlier than most of the men I lead.”

As Dean finished, his eyes widened, and Castiel realized he was remembering that most of those men were now dead. Dean dropped his eyes to his hands again, and became very interested in the skin on his thumb. To save Dean the mortification of having spoken ill of the dead, Castiel quickly carried on the conversation.

“Perhaps when you return, you should ask her. A woman like that would be highly desired by Angels.”

Dean laughed again. “Most men wouldn’t go near Jo. They like ‘em pretty and dainty, you know? Not that she isn’t… pretty. I don’t know… I just…”

“What?”

Dean’s eyes flickered up to meet Castiel’s and he smiled disingenuously, the edge of his mouth twitching over his exposed teeth.

“Maybe I just figure someone ought to offer her more, you know? She’s a great girl. And I’m on the Road most of the year. That’s where it all is for me, you know. All I want is to protect my people. The Road is who I am… Anyway, if I ever get back there, things will be different.”

“Why?”

“Before I left, the Princess. She, uh- … well she kissed me. Called it her ‘ _favor_ ’ and said I was to bring it back to her.” Dean’s eyes flickered back to the contents of his tankard while he spoke.

Castiel contemplated the explanation momentarily: “Is that a flirtation?”

Dean laughed openly at that and he met Castiel’s gaze properly again, eyes dancing with amusement. “Yeah, Cas, you know, I think it is.”

“Do you like her?”

Dean grinned.

“Well…uh…. I mean, she’s the Princess. Most beautiful woman in the whole kingdom and all of that. If she says jump, you don’t even get to ask ‘how high?’. You just do. And if she says, ‘get in my underthings’, well…”

“Regardless, would you want to marry her?”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Uh…. I don’t know. It’s not really about that. I mean, the guy who marries the Princess becomes the Leader of the Guard. Not just for Ardus, but for the entire kingdom. It’s the top of the pile.”

“Would you want that position?”

This time both of Dean’s eyebrows jumped, and he smiled again.

“Well, yeah! You know, I’d help train the young kids. Stop Alastair teaching them to be so brutal. Could really make a difference in saving their lives, you know? They might all stop dying before they’re 30.”

“That would be a significant achievement.”

Dean pursed his lips.

“Yeah, well. We’ll see. She’ll probably have forgotten all about me by the time I get back to things anyway.”

“You’re not that easy to forget, Dean.”

Dean looked up, and caught his eye, a question there, but one he was clearly unwilling to ask. He waited for a moment, before clearing his throat and changing the subject. Castiel was grateful. He didn’t know why he’d said that, but he regretted making Dean uncomfortable. He had meant what he said about wanting Dean to return to Ardus, much as he enjoyed his company.

“So what about you, Cas? Were there any Angels lucky enough to catch your eye?”

“No.”

Dean withdrew a little, as though surprised.

“Just like that? No?”

“Intercourse isn’t an Angel priority. There are some who participate, but… I never had the occasion.”

Dean made the same incredulous expression, but this time leaned forward, eyes curious.

“Why would you need that?”

Dean took a sip of his mead.

“For most Angels, intercourse is a precursor to mating. I wasn’t prepared to take a mate.” He paused, watching Dean’s face searchingly “I never had an interest in any humans either.”

Dean spat his drink again, although this time he was more careful to contain the spittle and most of it landed on the floor, rather than Castiel’s face.  “Angels had sex with humans?”

Castiel chuckled a little at Dean’s horrified expression, although the chuckle died with the flicker of disgust that crossed Dean’s face. Dean masked it carefully, and, blushing, turned to stare out the window again and he rubbed at his nose anxiously.

“A long time ago, before they took upon their changed form obviously. They weren’t very common. Many Angels believed your kind to be unclean. But there were a few instances… One of my brothers was… uh, _very_ fond of your kind.”

One of Dean’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead but he didn’t answer.

“So, you never… “

“I told you, I never found a mate.”

“Yeah, but…oh, don’t worry about it.”

When Castiel tilted his head, and searched Dean’s face for an indication as to the reason for his amusement, Dean blushed faintly and dropped his gaze.

“Thanks for breakfast, Cas. This is great.”

They were silent after that, and Castiel was unsure why.

…

After breakfast, Castiel informed Dean of his need to hunt for fresh kill, and indicated to Dean through the window the direction into the forest at which is feeding post was set up.

Dean observed silently, but as Castiel assembled his weapons he asked, almost uncertainly: “Why do you feed them?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. He knew that years ago, Slayers on the Road had been unaware of the difference providing the Angels with sustenance made. And, from observing Dean’s party, he knew the practice was still not normalized. But Dean was resourceful, and he was somewhat surprised he had not made the connection.

“It keeps them calm. When they know the food is coming, they stay away from the Road, and their attack instinct seems to lessen. I do it for your protection, and others like you.”

Dean whistled low and long.

“How’d you even get near enough to get some food to one?”

Castiel slid his dagger into a holster at his thigh.

“Largely by the same strategy you use on the Road. Stay quiet and unarmed. If the presence does not appear to be a threat, they will tend to let it be. Unless they are very hungry. I found, if I was careful in my presence, I could develop a kind of trust with them.”

“Really?”

 “There have been occasions where that has not been the case. They are mostly animal now. They will react as animals do to stimuli. Sometimes, they are unpredictable.”

He pulled back his fur from his bare chest and showed Dean the cross-hatching of scars along his chest and belly. It was the Angels preferred attack point – they were most attracted to the innards, and they would often try to take them before their host was even dead.

“But, I’ve been here for a long time. There’s a group that nests around this area. They are, for the most part, tame. At least to my presence.”

“It worked on those Angels in the forest too.”

“That was lucky. They could just have easily have attacked you.”

Dean nodded and looked at his hand, which was currently engaged in fiddling with the bandage at his bare thigh. Castiel covered himself and turned back to his equipment, speaking casually over his shoulder to Dean.

“I chose to try because it was the only option I had. After I realized that they could re-animate, there was no option of putting them to death.”

He heard Dean exhale carefully and deliberately. Castiel ignored it and continued.

 “At first I thought they were purely animal, and there was no hope. It wasn’t until I killed, well, I tried to kill one that I thought there might be a little hope.”

“Why?” Dean turned to look at his warily.

“The thing was stalking me in the forest. I’d spread out my wings, in hoping of scaring her off with my size… but she had none of it. Then I tried to stay still, but she was stalking. It was only a matter of time before she attacked.”

Dean nodded and kept his mouth in a grim line. His eyes were wide and entirely focused on Castiel.

“I made a choice and drew my blade. That was enough to provoke her to attack.”

He stopped and looked out and the winter vista before him at the window, swallowing down the burst of emotion that threatened to breach him before he continued.

“It was a rough fight. She was tired and hungry, but that made her more aggressive. She’s responsible for these.”

He held his left wrist and pulled up his sleeve, showing Dean the three parallel lines running up the inside of his forearm.

“I overpowered her, eventually. Although it cost a lot. In the end, I slit her throat.”

Dean nodded solemnly and looked up at Castiel. His eyes were wide and attentive.

“Even though she attacked me, I regretted having to kill her. At that time, I didn’t know she would eventually return, and have to inhabit that same body that I had wrecked so thoroughly. But I knew she had once been one of my own, and even then, I was not certain that the gates of heaven would re-open for her. I could have sent her to Hell, or Purgatory.”

Dean swallowed. “So they’re both real too then?”

“Yes. I am sure you will never have to see either, though.”

Dean chuckled. “That’s nice of you to say.”

“I’m not lying. You’re a good soul, Dean.”

Dean looked up at him, and his mouth dropped open, like he might say something. But he closed it again and withdrew, shuffling minutely away from Castiel.

“Did you see her re-animate? Is that what changed your mind?”

“No. It would have taken her a while to recover from that wound. I recognized her later.”

He sighed.

“I stayed with her. I don’t know why. I suppose I was curious. Usually, I killed the Angels more instantaneously than that. I’d never seen one up close and still alive.”

He scrunched his eyes shut, as though trying to close them to the memory of her open and weeping throat. As she had tried to screech at him, it pulsed and more blood would pour down the black and rank feathers covering her body.

“She was trying to screech. And curse me, in her own way, I suppose. But she couldn’t speak. She tried though. It was hideous…. Right before she died though, she reached for me. I thought she would rip my face off. But… she retracted her claws. And she just held it. Like… I suppose, a lover might hold the face of another.”

His voice cracked.

“There was an Angel that used to hold my face like that. She was a sister, and one of my most beloved. Angels aren’t supposed to prefer each other, but we always did… When she reached out like that, I knew it had once been her. And then I could see her in the creature’s eyes. Just a glimpse…”

He broke off as Dean stood, and reached out to clap his hand below Castiel’s neck, right above where his wings emerged.

“It was only a moment, right before she died. But… to be reminded that she was still there… It gave me hope that the creatures couldn’t be all hurt and chaos. Anna was so pure, and so good. She gave up her life – her first life – for a human, when I couldn’t.”

He wrapped his wings tighter about himself, shivering a little in an attempt to suppress his emotion.

“Anna was one of your hunting party?”

“Yes. Amongst others… she was very strong. A leader in our garrison when Heaven was open. When we lost her, I suspected I would be next.”

He hung his head so that his chin rested against his wings and his feathers tickled against his chin.

“I’m so sorry, Cas.”

Castiel turned his head slowly to where Dean watched him intently, eyes crinkled at the edges, and his lips twitching a little at the left edge.

“Thank you, Dean. It has… been a long time since I had company. Your being here, and listening to me, has brought me much relief.”

Dean sighed and looked out at the vista before them.

“Come with me.”

Dean lead them down the stairs slowly, leaning on Castiel for assistance with the last descent, and seating himself with a grumble at the bottom step. Castiel lowered himself carefully beside him and wrapped his wings at his chest to retain warmth. Dean bristled and allowed him the space, turning upwards to the sky as the first flakes of afternoon snow began to fall. One caught on the tip of his nose, and he went cross-eyed to observe it. Grinning, he turned to Castiel, with the exhilaration of a child. Castiel smiled and chuckled as Dean attempted to blow it off, only succeeding in producing a strange array of spitting noises.

Eventually, he succeeded and raised his arms in what Castiel could only assume was a grand celebration of success.

The darkness of their previous conversation was forgotten.

“Well done.”

Dean laughed openly at him. “You’re a sarcastic bastard, Cas.”

Even though it was cold, and Dean’s leg was evidently stiffening in the temperature, they stayed outside a while longer, while Dean showed Castiel a game he had learned as a child – catching snowflakes upon the tip of his tongue. Dean was immobile with his leg, so it was no long before he conceded and pronounced Castiel the victor. Even in the cold, and with a shiver creeping into his wings, Castiel didn’t remember much of the afternoon, aside from the bright smile upon Dean’s face and the pinch of red in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose as he chortled and grinned underneath the fall of the snow. The memory stayed with him a long while after Dean left.

…

** 2013 **

When Castiel finished Dean was staring brazenly again. He could have been doing so for a matter of hours, and Castiel would have barely noticed, for with every description and turn of the narrative he withdrew further into its contents, so that by the time he finished speaking the stormy, grey face of the Dean before him was entirely obscured by the memory of Dean’s eye’s dancing at him, even under the dull grey light of winter.

When he realised their circumstance, it was he who started and looked away from Dean automatically, concerned at provoking a further incident of aggravation or horror. But unlike the previous days, Dean made no move to leave immediately upon the completion of his required attendance.

“Did you know then, Cas?”

“Sorry?”

Sam’s voice crackled with the surprise of being used for the first time in hours, and the first phrase was barely discernible through the vibration of phlegm that had gathered in his throat during the duration of his silence.

“Did you now then, how you felt about Dean?”

Castiel’s eyes darted back to Dean’s before he could stop himself, and this time it was Dean who quickly looked down at his hands and crossed his arms across his chest.

“No. Not at all. I was glad of his company but... I didn’t know.”

“Did he?”

“Even less, I believe.”

The corners of Jessica’s mouth twitched: “you were both idiots.”

“I don’t doubt it. But there were a number of obstacles to realization of that. Not aside from what Dean had already spoken with me about.”

“That girl, Jo?”

Castiel nodded: “a little, although that changed quickly.”

She grinned at him and winked. Sam caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye and looked at her incredulously. She shrugged one shoulder at him: “what?”

The ensuing awkwardness that resulted from their brief staring match was enough to provoke the others to bring an end to the evening. Jessica left quickly, promising she’d be back early the next morning to hear the continuation, and Bobby followed suit, grumbling tiredly.

Dean, surprisingly, took his time vacating the seat, and he moved slowly (almost stickily) rather than with the alert, sharp movements that had characterised his behaviour the past few days. He made for the door in silence, and it wasn’t until he had opened it and stood upon its threshold that he turned back to the room and spoke as though he were speaking to its entire contents, rather than the two men waiting expectantly before him: “uh.... night.”

And then he shut the door, and there was a little too much force so that it slammed and made the window beside it rattle.

Sam waited awkwardly for a minute before speaking: “I’m gonna hit the hay. You’ll be alright?”

Castiel nodded and adjusted himself in the seat, so that his wings were spread over its arms comfortably, demonstrating his intention to stay there.

“Good. Uh, see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight Keith.”

It was a quicker night than before and Castiel may have even slept a little out of habit, rather than need, after the group left. He was certainly awake in the early hours of the morning though, and spent that time in contemplation of Dean’s eyes upon him as he told their story. He was unsure as to the meaning behind Dean’s sudden fascination with the tale, or his change in attitude towards Castiel. Certainly, there was no indication of remembering there, but there was confusion and wariness. Castiel doubted he was close to touching Dean’s soul yet, however much it pained him to witness the strange Dean before him, who seemed burdened with a suffering unknown to Castiel. Still, the promise that tomorrow might bring further changes, and more time in each other’s company was enough, and that thought buoyed Castiel until Sam stirred again after dawn as he waited patiently for anther audience with Dean.

 


	9. As You Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies that this update was delayed so significantly as it was. I was away over Christmas and New Years at the wonderful little beachside settlement I am lucky enough to visit every year. While the local library did have wifi on offer, it was rather ragged after it was assaulted by the armies of tweens and their multitude of instagram related needs. My one attempt to upload was entirely ill-fated, and after several aborted events with a temperamental connection, I had to call it a day and wait for a later opportunity. Please, take these 13,030 words as apology. I wrote them allll for you, my preciouses.
> 
> The good news is that my extended time away means I now have a buffer of ten chapters pre-written (although requiring substantial editing) – uploads will therefore certainly continue weekly from now on until the conclusion of this work. Even better, I have written SMUT – guys, it will happen, I promise! I know... these two, they’re so inept. And I was pushing and prodding them to have the feels for one another for two weeks of intense writing, and they were very reluctant to admit ANYTHING! Considering they’re so blatantly in love with one another, it should have been simple. But nooooo, they just kept staring at one another thinking: “Gosh, my purely platonic pal is awesome. I’m so glad for our utterly familial relationship”. Idjits. But I suppose that is why we love them – the naive suspense is utterly endearing.
> 
> For those of you that were interested, an update re: our wee stray (now “Billy”, being that he is a very silly billy). He found temporary accommodation at a shelter a few hours from our home with a very kind friend, and has since been passed on again to a potential home (pending his capacity to go off leash). There has been other interest in his adoption failing that, and his foster mother was utterly enamoured of him, so she is sure a home will be forthcoming. We’re so so happy he’s safe and will find the kind of love and attention he deserves. Although we were devastated to part with such a gorgeous fellow, we left him very happily flirting with all the toy poodles at his foster home and feeling optimistic for his future – far better than he would have hoped for at that intersection. I hope I will have happy love family very soon.

** 2013 **

Dean was not prompt the next morning, but he was not so late that Jessica contemplated making good on her threat of damaging Dean’s wagon. The group had just finished breakfasting – Castiel this time enjoying the creation a little more, since Sam had only been allowed limited input by Bobby – when there was a tentative knock at the door.

Despite his early appearance, without protest, Dean’s demeanour was still stony. He conceded only a small “Morning”, more in Jessica’s direction than in anyone else’s, before stiffly crossing the room and seating himself in the same position as always, directly opposite from Castiel, staring at his hands.

The group however, didn’t ready themselves to suit Dean’s schedule, instead carrying on with cleaning in the kitchen, and leaving Dean entirely at the mercy of Castiel’s unwavering gaze. Dean appeared to imagine himself having entirely committed to his position, for despite his numerous nervous glances towards the kitchen and back to Castiel, he made no move to join them.

It may have been that Jessica had deliberately positioned herself close the doorway, and would have blocked Dean’s entering that room to some extent. However, her back was to him and she was distracted laughing at Sam’s having overcompensated with what she called “dishwashing liquid”, which had resulted in a mountain of white froth overflowing from table and spreading itself in clumps across the floor. Bobby, sandwiched in between them, with a rag in hand, could not have glowered more severely at his circumstance.

Dean, albeit more relaxed, still studiously avoided acknowledging Castiel properly. But he was less aware of the minute adjustments that Castiel made to his wings, remaining still, rather than flinching at their slightest indication of movment. The silence, however, and the opportunity bore upon Castiel until at last, he could not bear it but to speak:

“Did you sleep well, Greg?”

Dean startled a little and didn’t properly recover his composure properly before he blurted out an answer: “alright.... I guess.”

“I am sorry.”

“S’not your fault.” Dean looked away from Castiel quickly and rubbed at his nose absently, using the knuckle rather that the tip of his finger, in a way that would barely have dispelled an itch.

The sight of Dean scratching, however, made Castiel feel a sympathetic twinge in his wing, and when Dean made no move to speak again, he allowed it to slowly curl around himself, in order to slot his fingers beneath the feather and rub lightly. The feathers were a little stiff and somewhat ruffled, having been positioned so oddly against the soft seat (or couch, as he had come to understand it was called) for such a long time. Once the itch was dispelled, therefore, he commenced grooming his fingers through the feathers slowly, gently righting them and setting them in a smoother position.

“What are you doing?”

When Castiel looked up, Dean’s eyes were wide and following the track of his fingers through the feathers and across the skin beneath, which flashed on occasion through the downy covering when Castiel adjusted it.

“I am grooming.”

“Oh.”

Dean swallowed rather vigorously and looked down at his hands. Castiel continued his ministrations in silence, rather than provoking Dean to speak when he did not wish to. He noted that Dean’s breathing was louder, and Dean seemed to be aware of it too, for he consciously held it, inhaling and exhaling slowly and carefully in order to minimise his volume. Castiel continued his exercise for several minutes, suppressing the urge to speak to Dean again, but when he looked up again, Dean’s eyes were unabashedly tracking the path of his hand across the feathers, and he barely registered Castiel’s gaze upon him until Sam re-entered the room and seated himself next to Castiel.

“So Cas, you, uh, ready to keep going?”

“Yes, if you wish.”

Jessica seated herself by Dean quickly and leaned forward, distractedly brushing her curls from her face, one leg thrumming against the floor.

“Yes, please.”

Dean said nothing, but his eyes raked Castiel’s face, when he thought he was otherwise occupied.

** 1424 **

Winter passed quickly and ordinarily, without extended snows. The truth was, Castiel didn’t let Dean know he was safe to leave for two weeks longer than was necessary. He made excuses for it. He needed Dean to help him with a repair to the roof before he left. Or he needed a few more days to size up the safety of the forest. Or Dean needed a few more days of practice upon his leg, before he would be comfortable making the ride back to Ardus. Dean acquiesced without noting the irrelevance of the concerns in the general scheme of his impending return to Ardus.

None of those excuses held weight. In honesty, Castiel knew he was keeping Dean with him because he feared losing him, and returning to the silence of the forest once again. He’d become accustomed to Dean’s presence: his grumbling and glares in the morning when he woke to the cold and the frost, his humming as he polished and sharpened his weapon and his deep, even breaths when he fell asleep in Castiel’s nest at night.

It was selfish to think such things, Castiel knew. Dean missed his brother more than anything. He mentioned him at least once every day: Sam would love this, or Sam once told him that. Castiel knew he was worried about him, and was desolate that Sam would believe his absence from the City for two months would mean he was dead. At times in the evening, when he fell silent, Castiel knew to whom Dean’s mind had gone.

And he missed his men too. And Jo, the pretty serving girl, and her whip-tongued mother. Even Lydia, the married woman he bedded when he was in the city – “she’s a wit Cas, you’d like her”. Castiel didn’t know why, but he was sure he wouldn’t.

It didn’t help that at times he felt like Dean might regret having to leave the cottage. Dean still checked the state of weather every morning when he woke, and he took to taking Impala out for a few short circuits of their clearing to “stretch her legs”. He encouraged Castiel to ride her most days too, in circles round the clearing outside his home. And he laughed at her enthusiasm for the new rider and admonished her for adopting Castiel as her second owner so easily. Her trust had been difficult to gain at first, but when Castiel had commenced riding her for Dean (his leg still being too sore to properly exercise her), he took to beating his wings as they galloped around the clearing. The mare had been exhilarated by the extra momentum, and she had since greeted Castiel enthusiastically every morning and seemed to rejoice in his riding her.

 Nonetheless, despite the obvious warming in the weather, Dean made no mention of actually leaving. And when Castiel spoke of his eventually returning to Ardus (which was a rare occasion, for he didn’t care to talk of it), a small crinkle appeared around Dean’s eyes, like he was holding something back.

Still, after two weeks of omitting to mention the obvious, Castiel overcame his own selfishness and spoke to Dean. That morning, when Dean awoke, and went to the windows, he raised the matter:

“I think you’re safe to travel now.”

“Are you sure? Maybe there’ll be a late winter frost or something?” Dean bent forward towards the window, trying to angle his head up at the sky and letting the tip of his nose press against the glass. His breath made small marks on the pane as he watched.

Castiel felt his stomach drop softly, wishing he could agree. “I’m sure. I’ve lived in this forest long enough to know the weather patterns. You’ll be able to leave tomorrow.” He couldn’t help the muteness in his voice at the final words.

Dean withdrew and turned to look at Castiel. “That’s great, Cas. That’s great news.” While the words were light, they seemed to weigh heavily upon him. When he breathed in, it was as if he did so with a boulder strapped to his chest. Castiel stared at him, until Dean corrected himself and flashed him a huge, white smile. “Yeah… it’s really great. Finally gonna see Sammy.”

“I’m sure it will be a relief for him too.”

Dean grinned and gave a light laugh: “Yeah. He’s useless on his own. Wish you could meet him.”

“I wish I could too. He sounds wonderful.”

Dean held Castiel’s momentarily, before his smile dropped slightly and he looked away and itched at his shoulder absently. “Guess I better get packed up, huh?”

Castiel itched at his own kneecap in response.

“Yes, we can leave at first light tomorrow.”

“You’re coming?” Dean’s eyes flashed back to him, eyebrows raised with the question.

“I thought…if you wouldn’t mind, I would fly with you for part of the way. Just in case.” Castiel kept his voice steady, remedying the lapse of before, although Dean’s enthusiasm at leaving had started a twist in his gut. He understood that Dean had to return to his family. But, he hated it.

Dean’s smile lost some of its vibrancy and the controlled blandness of Castiel’s tone. “Yeah, Cas. That would be great.” Their eyes met and held for a few seconds, and Dean’s mouth opened a little, like he had something else to say, shut it again and flashed Castiel a quick, closed-mouth smile. “Better go tell my baby the good news. She’s been aching for a good gallop out of the clearing.”

“Of course. I’ll prepare us some rations.”

Dean clicked his tongue in approval, before he shuffled from the cottage, closing the door quietly behind him.

When Castiel had finished his preparations, Dean still wasn’t back from the barn. Castiel left through the back exist of the cottage, and found that while Impala was in the stable, Dean was not, although she was freshly fed and watered, and her saddle was readied beside her.

It didn’t take Castiel long to find Dean, anticipating where he might find him. He was down by the river, where he’d been walking each morning to give himself some exercise, skipping stones across its surface. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and he followed the path of each stone long after it had sunk, absorbing the ripples of the movement across the water’s surface in hypnotic whirls.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

Dean whirled around sharply, heaving in a breath of shock, partially raising a hand. “God Cas, don’t do that!”

“I’m sorry. I thought you heard me.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, and let out a surprised huff of a snort. When their eyes held, he went silent again and turned away until Castiel spoke again.

 “I have everything prepared for tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Cas.” Dean’s voice was small, and a little muffled, and he leaned down to pick up another stone to send it whizzing across the water’s surface. He miscalculated, however, and it went plunging into the water with a slosh, leaving a messy slash mark in the water, where before there had been symmetry.

“Is something bothering you?” Castiel took a step forward, but Dean silenced him with a mild statement.

“No. No, I’m fine.”

He obviously wasn’t. He was determinedly looking away from Castiel, and he seemed without the energy and enthusiasm that had possessed him for the last few days.

“Shall I leave you?”

“No. No, sorry. Just…” Dean turned around and faced Castiel, another strange smile playing around his lips. It looked forced, despite the happy news Dean had been dealt. When he saw Castiel’s expression, his fingers began to thrum nervously at his thigh, and his face attempted to rearrange itself into something more suitable.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem content Dean.”

“No. I am.  I mean, I’ve really missed Sammy. I just…”

“What?” Castiel took a step forward less cautiously this time, although Dean leaned back, as though losing his balance.

“I just… Will you be alright? By yourself?”

Castiel pursed his lips and looked away from Dean’s worried gaze

“I’ve been on my own a long time, Dean. I am used to it.”

“Yeah, but… Well, I just… I don’t like thinking of you staying alone out here.”

“Is there another option, but for it?”

Dean thought for a long while. When he spoke, his voice was a growl. “No, there’s not.”

“It’s alright, Dean. I took you in knowing you would have to return to your family. You have no obligation to me.” Castiel was glad he kept his voice so even. The truth was that it wasn’t alright. He didn’t want to be left alone again. Being with Dean had reminded of him of what it meant to have his brothers and sisters. To have companionship. Dean was… he didn’t know exactly, he’d never shared such a bond with a human. But Dean had said they were friends, and that seemed to have significance to him. And that had meant something to Castiel, and his sadness at its loss meant something too.

“I know. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we Dean?”

“Of course we are. I told you we were.”

 “Well… maybe, if you return to the Road at some point, I might see you, if I am nearby?”

Dean’s face lit up at that, and his fingers ceased their fiddling. “I’d really like that, Cas.”

Dean’s smile made Castiel smile, and he felt a warmth in his lower belly dispel some of its heaviness. It was kind and comforting. It quelled the twisting feeling. “When you’re gone, I’ll watch the Road for you Dean. We’ll see each other again.”

Dean smiled wider, and his shoulders relaxed. He stood square, and bounced back and forth on his legs.  “Yeah. Yeah, of course we will.”

“Good. Are you ready to come inside then? It’ll be a long ride for the next few days. We’ll need the sleep.”

“Yeah, sure. Just give me a moment?”

“I’ll meet you inside.”

Dean’s moment took long enough for Castiel to boil some water and wash himself. He was grooming his feathers, ensuring they were prepared for flight when Dean arrived back at the cottage. While he had spent the past few months doing so in privacy, in order to spare Dean whatever mortification seemed to arrive in him, with only tonight to prepare to leave, he hurried through the task in his more usual fashion in the corner of his cottage, taking advantage of Dean’s absence.

When Dean did come inside he quickly averted his eyes. “Oh… sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Castiel quickly wrapped his feathers around himself and retrieved his shirt from where it hung on the chair beside him, slipping the panels over his back and fumbling quickly with the buttons at its front. “I’m done now.”

“Oh…good.” Dean avoided making eye contact for a minute more, while he bustled around the kitchen and found himself some dried fruit to snack on, chewing loudly as though to detract from the tense silence of a moment before.

“What will you do first? When you reach the city?”

Dean chewed while he thought through the answer, swallowing audibly. “I’d like to see Sammy first thing, but… there’ll probably be formalities. I’ll need to make a report first. Maybe we’ll go out. Drink some.”

“What will you say to, Sam?” Castiel warmed as Dean’s eyes softened at the thought, despite his own inclination to feel sadness at the event.

“I don’t know… I guess I’ll tell him I missed him. That I’m sorry he had to believe I was dead for so long.”

Castiel steadied himself for the next question. He didn’t know why, but he felt like its answer would matter to him a great deal. Dean seemed to notice, for his eyes flickered up to Castiel briefly, but he took another bite of his snack rather than acknowledge it: “Will you tell Sam about me?”

Dean stopped mid-chew and stared at him. Castiel dropped his eyes away, afraid of the answer already.

“Prob-Probably not, Cas.”

There was a long pause, where Dean seemed to hold his breath.

“I understand.”

Dean swallowed hurriedly, and coughed a little as he didn’t properly manage to carry out the task.

“Uh, no I don’t think you do. It’s not because of you, or what you are. It’s because of what might happen to you if I just start telling everyone. If Alastair thought there was an easy kill out here in the forest, he’d be out here trying to mount your head on a stick.”

“I’m not an easy kill.” Castiel titled his head in mild confusion, at the strange logic Dean appeared to wish to employ. Was Dean lying? There had been no hint of falsehood in the past few months that would justify a lie at this point.

“No. _I_ know that. But he doesn’t. But if I said there was an Angel that looks like a human, with no claws or fangs that has a vegetable garden and apologizes to the animals he kills, that’s what it’d sound like. He and his men would rip your wings off, Cas.”

Castiel’s wings tensed at that, and gave a few nervous flutters behind him. Dean’s eyes were drawn immediately by the movement and he looked back at Castiel with an expression that clearly read _I told you so_. And he was correct, Castiel knew.

“Sam’s my brother. And I trust him to understand. But, if he tells Ruby, it’ll be all around the city in a day. And it’s not just Alastair that’d want you. There’s so many people that hate your kind. They’d want to take revenge on you. You’ve got a life here. I don’t want you to have to run away.” He looked around the cottage, as though demonstrating his point. It was a paltry place, but it was inhabited, and filled with Castiel’s history. He nodded minutely and hung his head, although Dean’s view made sense.

“And if I start spouting off about my new Angel friend in the forest, I may not even be allowed to ride out anymore. They’d think I was mad. If I don’t get to leave the Citadel, I don’t get to see you.”

There was a pause when Dean stopped speaking, and he hurriedly took a breath to compensate for his harried pace.

“You understand, Cas?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll see each other soon. There’s more trading to do in Spring than we can handle. And maybe I can sneak out of the cities when we rest there. I’ll just tell the men I’m bedding some girl. We can go for a ride in the forest or something, if you like…” He half-grinned hopefully, as though the rest of the smile could not follow until Castiel gave his approval.

“I’d like that.”

Dean’s full grin followed, bright and cheerful and energetic.

“Good, it’s settled. Now come on, I need an early night with all the riding we’ll be doing tomorrow. I’m still like an old man on this leg.”

He clapped Castiel on the shoulder as he passed him and made his way to his bed (for that was how Castiel thought of it now, having spent enough time watching him sleep in it to have mentally re-assigned ownership). Castiel averted his eyes, as usual, while he Dean stripped and slid under the rugs.

He’d been silent for around twenty minutes, and Castiel had wrapped himself up in his wings and curled up on the floor, on his own fur when Dean murmured to him sleepily.

“You know Cas, you’re nothing like a monster at all.”

Castiel smiled into his wing at the sound of sleepiness in Dean’s voice as he said it. He was clearly on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean grumbled a little and wriggled into the furs. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled, like he was face down against the bed.

“You’re not ugly. You’re sort of … _mmph_...”

…

Contrary to his predictions that he’d be impeded by his stiff leg and lack of practice, Dean rode furiously and without complaint towards the Citadel. In fact, Castiel had to take more regular breaks than Dean did on the journey. If he hadn’t insisted they stop for meals (in order to ease the cramps in his wings, that were put off by such exertion after their relative stagnancy) he doubted Dean would stop at all, so strong was his resolve to return to his brother. The speed was an efficient tactic though. It kept them ahead of any interested Angels in the forest. There was no sense in pursuing such a rapid target when there would soon be heavily-laden and larger parties on the Road.

 By the third day, they were within half a day’s slow ride of the City and set up camp for the night, by a collection of boulders that offered them shelter from the still cold winds that rose in the evenings.

Dean had fallen asleep abruptly the previous nights (the only sign that he was finding the trip draining), but on that final night, wrapped in his fur, he stayed awake, next to Castiel, back against the boulders watching the night sky and admiring it. They didn’t speak, aside from a few murmurs. Though Castiel had scouted the area, they were still careful to stay quiet when darkness fell, perhaps more out of habit than anything else.

At one point, when the rock became cold in the early morning, Castiel placed one wing between the boulder and Dean’s back. They were both tired and a little shivery, so neither made particular note of the fact it was the first time Dean had touched Castiel’s wings. It was barely a touch anyway. Dean kept his fur wrapped around himself and his hands within it, even when he dozed off for a while before dawn. But to Castiel, it was an odd intimacy.

It wasn’t the reason that Castiel had let Dean near his wings (or likely, the reason Dean had let the wings near him) – it was purely practical. But Castiel couldn’t help but feel odd at the sight of Dean nestled against him, cradled by the feathers at the tip of the wing, which curled gently back around his right shoulder.

It struck Castiel as odd in itself that he felt odd about it. The gesture was familial, often seen amongst Angels who lived in smaller units together for long periods of time. Certainly, when Anna was alive, it was a position they found themselves in often and without thought.

Dean, in a way, was the closest thing he’d had to family since he’d lost the others. In sharing a home, and a presence, they’d shared a part of their souls together without even realizing it. The fact that there were odd formalities in their behavior (like Dean’s general awkwardness around his wings, and his aversion to seeing Castiel, or letting himself be seen, in any state of undress) didn’t negate the bond that had formed between them.

Yet still, seeing Dean snoring lightly, face turned into his feathers and nose twitching when they rustled against them, it felt different. Not in a bad way. But it made Castiel aware of the pulse of his heartbeat throughout his body, which had quickened, like he was sick or nervous. It felt bad but good at the same time, like it was leading somewhere, although Castiel didn’t know where. Perhaps it was merely the reminder that none of his brothers and sisters were left to engage in the action any longer – none but he understood the complexity of the motion, even Dean nestled against him.

It was easy though, to not feel inspired to be curious about it, under the vast expanse of sky and in the gentle hum of the sleeping forest. It was easy rather, to simply feel content and unburdened, by his Father, his sisters and brothers or anything else, and just to revel in the beauty of creation when it was at rest, and at its most unassuming.

Castiel turned his head to watch Dean’s slow and even breaths in and out, in a deep sleep despite his dangerous surroundings. He was almost childlike in the way he brought his hands to his chin and nestled into them, and he smiled in his sleep. Yes, Castiel mused as he turned back to stare at the inky night sky - when at rest and without any pretence, creation was at its greatest.

…

Castiel waited until Dean had saddled Impala before he told him that he would go no further. It seemed like Dean was expecting it, though his face still dropped when Castiel remained seated against the boulder, fiddling with a few of his feathers that had been ruffled by the rock’s rough surface during the night.

Dean was silent while he slung his travelling bag over his shoulder, and attached his weapons to his belt. Castiel didn’t interrupt. There was little to say at this point that they hadn’t already discussed in the days previously.

“So this is it?”

Castiel sighed and pushed himself up from the ground, letting his wings stretch and shiver behind him, working out their stiffness from immobility the previous night.

“I’ll see you soon, Dean” he said, meeting his eyes and trying (and failing) to summon up a farewell smile.

“Yeah… real soon.” Dean quirked his lips in a similar attempt, although he still looked sad behind it, his lips quivering as though oscillating between a smile and a grimace.

“Uh. Cas, thank you. For everything. I-“ he paused, looking embarrassed, “well, I don’t know what to say. But that. Thank you.”

“You know I feel the same.”

Dean breathed in softly, and nodded, managing to offer a more genuine grin.

“So… Give me a month, maybe a bit longer. Meet me on the Road.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

Dean nodded curtly again and extended his hand towards Castiel. Castiel responded by looking at it blankly.

“You’re supposed to take it, Cas. It’s a handshake. Look-“ he pulled Castiel’s hand and clasped it in his, not too tightly, but firm enough that Castiel got the gist. “Then we, just, shake them up and down like this.”

He jiggled their hands up and down a few times. Castiel had given Dean his hand with a loose wrist, so even the mild force of the shake shook his entire arm in a strange way,

“This is a human custom?”

“Yeah. It’s… well, you can do it with friends.”

“It’s an odd gesture.”

“Yeah. Well. I, uh…Here” He kept his hand clasped around Castiel and pulled him forward, wrapping his other arm around behind Castiel’s neck and let his chin rest on the back of his shoulder.

Castiel hung limply, unsure how to respond, and a little uncomfortable at the way their hands were crushed in between their chests.

“Just uh, clap me on the back or something, Cas.”

Castiel did as instructed, although perhaps a little too enthusiastically, for Dean let out a small _oof_ , before releasing him and letting his hands drop to his sides.

“Is that part of the same custom?”

“No. That one’s different. You can do that one with friends too. Or family.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean blushed a little and bit his lip. He turned away from Castiel, although he kept his eyes on Castiel’s face to the last second and approached his horse. Castiel watched curiously as Dean rubbed at the back of neck awkwardly for a few moments, before he hooked his foot into Impala’s stirrup and swung his other leg over her back and down her other side.

“Well, goodbye then. For now.” Dean’s mouth twitched in a small smile as he looked down at Castiel from atop his steed.

“Yes, goodbye.” Castiel smiled back, and patted the horse once on the nose. She whickered softly, and tossed her head once, before her ears pricked up, alert to her rider’s instructions.

They stared at each other a long moment before Dean whirled Impala around and squeezed his thighs along her sides. In a moment, she was off in a brisk canter. The last Castiel saw of Dean was the back of his head, as he headed into the tree thicket and towards the main Road that would take him back to the Ardus Citadel.

Castiel only spent a little more time in the clearing after that. At some point, he rose above the tree line and witnessed the black dot that was moving beyond it make its way to the road and begin to follow the path south towards the City. He waited until Dean was completely out of sight before he turned himself, and began the flight home.

For some reason, the journey home took longer, although Castiel flew later into the night and started earlier in the morning. Partly, that was due to his hunting activities. He left a trail of carcasses in his wake, leading away from the Road where Dean rode, in order to ensure his safe passage. But it wasn’t just that. He did become distracted at points, and didn’t fly in a perfect line back to his home. It wasn’t just that though. There was a certain heaviness in his flight, and he found himself tiring quickly beneath it. On the fourth day, when he arrived home, he didn’t even take the time to rearrange the furs he had fashioned into Dean’s bed into his preferred nest shape. Instead, he merely fell into it, burrowing into the now foreign smelling furs and wrapping his wings around himself, and slept until the evening of the next day.

…

“Open the gates!” Bobby’s roar was loud, in spite of the disbelief that laced his cry. “Open the gates! Dean Winchester is returned!”

Dean, seated atop Impala, kept his eyes fixed on the Road behind him. Although he had completed his travels without incident, he was cautious still. The final ride back had been wearying. Not only because he had barely slept the previous night, nor because he had been riding for four full days. He was tired because he’d become accustomed to Castiel’s watch of the forest floor from his bird’s eye view, and the safety that it provided. Without his shadow, Dean had been a mere soldier, barely armed, thundering along the Road – a prime target to any Angel in the vicinity.

He’d wondered at times if the Angel had followed him beyond the point he’d said he would not. He even suspected that Cas had concocted some scheme to ensure his safe passage. But whenever he’d glanced behind him, there had been no sign of a winged figure on the horizon. It felt strange, being out of Castiel’s company so abruptly, but Dean supposed he had much to be occupied with. His usual practices had been put out by months with Dean’s company, and Dean was sure Cas would have plenty to do in order to make the most of the upcoming summer months. Time was too precious for sentiment, and Cas was hardly the kind of creature that appreciated such things.

As the gates creaked open, Dean could already hear the murmur of an interested crowd that had gathered, shocked to hear his name uttered for the first time in two months. The moment he had sufficient space, he slid Imapla through the gap, relieved to find himself within the City walls and their protection once more.

The eyes of the townspeople that had assembled were wide and unbelieving. Upon his appearance, their voices hushed and they parted way for him as he rode through their mass.

Bobby’s joyous cry at the sight of him rang out loud and pure above them. “Dean. You idjit! Where the hell you been?”

Dean was only partially dismounted before Bobby was gripping him by both shoulders, eyes almost brimming over and face shining with delight.

“We thought you were dead, boy!” He smacked his palms against Dean’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I thought I was too, at first.” Dean’s reply was a little muffled as Bobby crushed his face into his shoulder.

“What happened? How’d you survive?”

Dean clapped him on the arm in return. “All in good time. I promise. Where’s Sam?”

“Probably up at the library. He’s gonna be glad to see you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” Dean’s cheeks were already aching from how hard he was smiling at the sight of Bobby, and they didn’t threaten to rest at the swell of elation in his chest at the thought of the fact that his reunion with Sam was mere moments away.

“I hate to cut things short-“ he saluted the crowd, which had grown larger as he had heard his name called through the city streets. Grinning, he nudged Impala forward, and cantered through the city streets, past disbelieving stares and whoops of celebration.

By the time he reached the palace walls, Chuck was waiting for him, chest puffed with elation.

“By God, it’s true! We heard the call halfway across the city. Welcome home, Dean!”

Dean raised his hand in greeting. “It’s good to be home. Have you seen my brother?”

“He’s on his way down. The moment we heard your name, they sent a runner.”

Dean dismounted again, giving Impala a few appreciative strokes on her muzzle. “She’s been riding a long time. Can you take care of her while I see Sammy?”

“You’ve got it.” Chuck grinned at him, and slapped him jovially on the arm as Bobby had done. “I just can’t believe it, Dean. I’m so glad you’re back!”

Dean chuckled. “It’s nice to know I meant so much to you all.”

Chuck laughed back. “It’s more than that Dean. It’s-“

“DEAN!”

Sam’s cry could have shattered windows, it was so shrill and excited, from the balcony of the palace’s walls. With a delighted cry, he slammed his hands down on the stone retraints, and stumbled as he raced down the stairs to his brother.

When Sam bounded towards Dean, he was the perfect image of an excited puppy. His eyes were wide with wonder, and his smile was stretched so far across his face it practically severed it in half.

They met in an embrace with such force that Dean was sure he’d bruise the next day, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around his brother and squeezing him with all his might.

“God, Dean, we thought you were dead.” Sam’s voice was muffled against Dean’s shoulder as he pressed his face there, and his words came out in hot breaths against Dean’s clothing.

Dean grinned against his brother. “Alive and well Sammy. In the flesh.”

Sam’s tight squeeze knocked the breath Dean attempted to take, leading to a slight _oof_ as Dean reciprocated in kind.

“I thought- We all did. We had your funeral.”

“I bet they were all devastated. All the palace ladies turn out for me?” Sam let out a shaky breath as he withdrew from his brother, and laughed lightly in disbelief.

“The whole damn city did, Dean. Everyone was… Oh God, I can’t believe you’re back.”  Sam pulled his brother in tightly again for another hug and Dean felt, beneath the thrum of excitement and boyish disbelief, he was trembling too.

“Can’t even believe it myself.”

“There’s so much to tell you. I don’t even know where we-“

“You can start by explaining this.” Dean pulled back and raised his hand to flick playfully at the moustache and extravagant sideburns Sam was now sporting – a far cry from Sam’s usual clean-shaven appearance. “Makes you look like a brothel master from Romus.”

Sam grinned and made to punch Dean’s shoulder, but they were interrupted by a familiar voice from behind Sam, although its owner was invisible due to Sam’s extreme bulk. It didn’t matter. Dean knew it. And the moment soured as quickly as it had arisen.

 “Sam? Is it true? Is he-”

Sam grinned even wider and pulled away from Dean to turn around. Ruby, who stood behind him, looking flushed and flustered, and stumbled a little when she caught sight of Dean. Her mouth fell open in a stunned little _oh._ As she descended slightly at the knees,  Sam rushed forward to catch her with a furrowed brow.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and urgent and he leaned close to her ear as though she might struggle to discern his words.

She let him right her, and smiled up at him, letting their noses almost brush as he leaned in concernedly. “I’m fine, darling. Just a little surprised.”

A beat passed between them before she looked back to Dean, a gracious smile inflating her face.

“ _Dean,_ ” it was said with such an affectation that it made Dean choke a little on the pretense, “I can’t believe it.” She held out both her hands towards him. Even in his glazed state of happiness, he still hesitated a little before taking them, needing the prompt of Sam’s expectant expression.

She squeezed them tightly. “We’re so happy you’re home.”

The lids of Dean’s eyes twitched on the odd expression of plurality, but he kept his manner charming for Sam’s benefit. He wanted to enjoy the moment too, and forget his dislike for Ruby temporarily (it had been so pleasant having barely thought of her for two months). “I’m glad to see you’re well, Ruby.”

She smiled at him, teeth and all (an unusual departure from her usual close-lipped, condescending smirk). It was disorienting, seeing Ruby so…. _pleasant_. Had he not been so elated in the moment, he might have suspected earlier that there was something relevant he was missing.

“I’m more than well.”

Her hands dropped to her stomach and rubbed a circle over it in an odd kind of gesture. It was almost like a pantomime expression of hunger.

Sam reached out and clasped his hand over the same area. His hand was so monstrous it eclipsed both of hers clasped together. When he spoke, his voice was incredulous, and elated.

“Dean. God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this in person. We- … Ruby and I, we’re _married_.”

…

Sam’s little announcement couldn’t have been timed better to stifle the reaction Dean had been on the verge of having. It wasn’t the words Sam had uttered that had caught him off guard (although he had a few choice thoughts about that circumstance). He’d barely heard those words above the rush of blood in his ears as he’d witnessed the way Sam clasped protectively around Ruby’s hands that had been laced at such an odd way at her stomach.

It had only taken moments to piece together. Sam’s strange concern at a little trip, the inappropriateness of a marriage so close to Dean’s ‘death’ and the assured little (familiar) smirk that had crossed Ruby’s face as Sam had spoken. That smirk had said _I’ve won_. She had. She was holding the trump card now. The card that would -

“Your audience will be in here.” The guard to his right indicated two massive wooden doors embedded into the wall, decorated artfully with an iron filigree that ascended farther than Dean’s eye could make out, to the shadowy heights of the palace’s roof. It was a monument built in thanks to the original Empress that had made their city, and other cities like it, safe from the Angels. An absolutely massive and exorbitant thank you; a display of opulent wealth reflected nowhere in Ardus’ kingdom.

“Remind me of the proper titles?” Dean smiled weakly at the guard. “Not exactly any formal audiences with royalty in the forest, you know how it is.”

The guard, unlike the rest of the Citadel, did not seem overly impressed with Dean’s feat. On the contrary, he looked stern and unamused.

“The Empress Eve is Your Majesty. Her husband is His Lordship, and their daughter is Her Imperial Highness. Don’t get it wrong.”

Dean gulped nervously. “Not really sure I’m dressed for this kind of occasion.”

The guard smirked and nodded to the guards on either side to open the doors. As they did, he muttered at Dean: “Alastair sends his regards and congratulations.”

Dean’s eyebrows raised, and he grinned: “Really? How is the old son of a-“

The guard ignored him and pressed the doors open, and the creak drowned out the end of Dean’s query. It distracted him from following up on the odd manner of delivery of the message too, for moments later, he was being thrust forward by a hostile armored hand and onto a massive purple carpet, that lead up the middle of the room to a decorated platform at its centre. Dean barely had a moment to splutter his indignance before the doors were being slammed shut behind him and he was left stranded on the carpeted island. His brain ran frantically through the necessaries of etiquette Sam had drilled him upon, after his accession to the ranks of the Slayers. He came up short, only remembering: _eyes down, shoulders straight and don’t say anything unless you have to_.

Dean gulped and at once dropped his head, and commenced approaching their majesties slowly, focusing his eyes on the stairs at their feet. The throne room was massive (in order to host formal ceremonies such as crowning) so the walk was a long, and slightly painful one. The only sound as Dean shuffled forward was the shuffle of his mud-caked boots along the bright red rug. He winced at the sound, and at once commenced to pick up his feet artificially to avoid it. In a room of majesty such as this, making one’s presence so audible seemed like a gross affront. Dean had no idea why, but it just did.

When he was close enough to be made out by their waiting majesties, he heard Lilith’s shocked intake of breath. He took the opportunity to peek a glance at the group. Lilith, as royal princess, was seated to her mother’s right, dressed in the red celebration robes of royalty she was so fond of. To her left was the Empress Eve, wearing the more customary purple garb. Her eyes were narrow and her back was ramrod straight and barely rested against the throne behind her. She caught the end of Dean’s look and a small twitch of displeasure was at once visible in her upper lip. On her left was Samuel Campbell, once a Slayer like Dean, but now Lord Protector of the City by both marriage and appointment. He was the man Sammy was named in honor of, having been appointed Lord Protector in the year of Sam’s birth. All their eyes were on Dean, who attempted to bow shakily before them. Since he hadn’t been much for ceremony, even before his stint in the forest, it was an especially poor one and Eve made a discontented little sound in her throat, before she commenced speaking.

 “Dean Winchester, you have fought a great battle to return to our City. We thought you were lost to us.” The Empress addressed him in her characteristically cool manner, with an empty stare.

“I thought I was too, your majesty.” He kept his eyes at their feet, avoiding direct contact. Despite his status as a Slayer, he was not yet at a social position where a direct address was possible.

“The Slayer Garth told us he saw you being dragged into the woods by a creature. How did you escape?”

At the sound of Garth’s name, Dean couldn’t help but break code. He looked up to Lilith, his tone suddenly frantic: “Garth’s alive?”

Samuel cleared his throat and Dean dropped his eyes again quickly, relief flooding from his core to the tips of his fingers for the man he had sure was dead. When Samuel did speak his voice was low and emotionless, like Eve’s. “He returned to the City with one other man. He now bears the mark of a Slayer.”

So Garth was a Slayer now. That was new. Not that the term meant much after what Castiel had told him about the Angels regenerating. It was a surprise. Garth was a good solider, but he was without the mass (or, Dean had thought, the skill, to take down an Angel). Despite that, it was an elating thought. For two months, Dean had believed he was responsible for the deaths of all 25 of the travelling party, as well as their animals. The news that even two had lived was enough to momentarily eclipse the guilt he’d felt since then. Of course, the guilt roared back to life only moments later, reminding him that two lives did not spare the torturous deaths that had met the other 23.

“So tell us, Dean. How did you return to us?” Eve lowered her chin and stared him down. He could feel the burn on the top of his head.

“I, uh-“ He and Castiel had rehearsed this story a few times to make it sound believable, but the words were difficult for his tongue – that felt dry and swollen with nerves – to make proper sense of.

“You may look at me, when you address me, Slayer.”

Dean gulped and looked up. The moment he was properly met with the full force of Eve’s gaze, he wished he’d been allowed to keep his head low. Her eyes made him feel like his skin was burning with cold and frost, and he gave a small, involuntary shiver, before fixating his eyes on her right ear.

“I was trying to fight off the Angels …. Your Majesty” Mentally, he patted himself on the back for remembering to mention her title. “Got knocked off my horse. Must have hit my head because I don’t remember much. When I woke up, one of them had dragged me a little way into the forest. Guess it didn’t want to share its meal.” He tried a faint grin at Lilith, but her gaze, like that of those beside her, was a merciless stare. “When I woke up the thing had a hold of me. I still had my weapon and I fought it off, but it tore open my leg.”

“Why did it not kill you?”

“ There was a man … fallen a little ways beyond me. I think the thing had gone for him first. When I woke up it was still… with him.”

“Why did you not return to the men?”

“I was unconscious for a while. When I woke it was too late. The only ones left were dead, your Majesty. If they obeyed my orders, any that were alive would have lead the creatures away from the wagons and down the Road. I saw the wagons were destroyed and the people in them were dead or gone.”

She nodded solemnly.

“I couldn’t walk on my leg. I found my horse in the forest. She comes when I whistle, see?”

He grinned proudly to himself at that. It had taken some time for him to teach his baby that trick. She was valiantly faithful too – even when the Angels had been attacking.  Cas had whistled to her, she’d come to him, though Dean was sure she’d sooner have run as far as she could in the opposite direction.

He thought of Cas again, perched on her saddle, galloping at full speed with his wings flapping behind him. Impala seemed to have loved the feel of extra speed that he brought her. He’d probably ruined her for Dean now. She’d think he was just some useless lump that sat atop her….

He stopped. They were awaiting his further explanation.

“I tried to ride down the Road, but I couldn’t go at speed. But I could hear them everywhere. And I was losing blood and setting up a trail-“

“We understand why you took shelter, Slayer. But why have you taken so long to return to us?”

“I was injured. And so was my horse. We were both sick with infection. I took shelter in a cave. It got too cold to travel, with my injury the way it was. We had to wait out the snows, for I had nothing warm to protect me. We left as soon as the air changed.”

The royals conversed for a few moments amongst themselves atop their platform in hushed whispers before Eve addressed Dean again.

“You are welcome home, Slayer. We will celebrate your return tomorrow night. You are dismissed.”

They made no move to rise from their seats and, facing the pressure of being stared down by the three most powerful courtiers in the entire kingdom, Dean gave a curt and awkward little bow.

“Thank you for your audience.”

No one responded and Eve raised her eyebrow. The gesture confused Dean and he froze momentarily, unsure if there was some kind of social decorum which he had forgotten – perhaps kissing their almightiness’ feet, for instance. But, when there was nothing, he made a quick calculus, and decided leaving too early would be better than waiting out the painful silence. He sighed in relief, when he commenced walking backwards, head bowed, and their majesties made no move to stop him. From the end of the hall, he could hear the sound of the doors being painstakingly inched open again, by the unfortunate guards obliged to bear their weight on a daily basis.

The walk down the aisle was an embarrassing one, and Dean did his best to hurry without scuttling in their presence, but with his stiff leg, his gait did come across as something of a lollop. The guard that had escorted him to the room still stood outside, back entirely erect despite the heavy (and largely ornamental) garb be wore. Although he didn’t move from his postured position, his eyes narrowed enough beneath his visor that Dean felt the hostility, and he decided against asking about the details of the celebration the next night.

Right. Back to reality it was then.

….

“Where are you going?”

“Balthazar’s waiting down at the Brown Bear. The whole Guard is there.”

Dean’s glance at Sam was unapologetic, and he quickly returned to dressing himself in some of his mustier clothes, which Sam had left, still folded, in his chest of drawers.

“I thought… we might… spend some time together.”

“Duty calls.”

 “Yes, but…”

Sam didn’t finish his sentence and Dean didn’t enquire as to what he had meant to say. It wasn’t until he was almost entirely properly dressed, that Sam had tried to vocalize his frustration, but the attempt was immediately prevented by the sound of the door being thrown open and the musical howl of Garth’s enthusiastic greeting. “DEAN!” It was accompanied by a hug the strength of which Dean could have barely anticipated. Garth’s bony, weedy figure was sharp and spiky, and Dean grimaced as Garth’s wrists pressed into his shoulders.

When he pulled away, Garth was practically in tears: “Man of the hour! Dean. I can’t believe it.”

“Woah, woah, wo-“

Dean attempted to back away, but Garth was upon him again like lighting, wrapping his arms around Dean and pinning his biceps to his sides with surprising strength. Dean was practically constricted to death before Garth let go.

“How’d you do it?”

Dean grinned, but he felt it falter, when his gaze flickered back to Sam, who still hadn’t lost his disappointed expression.

“All in good time, my good man. Right now, there’s more pressing matters to attend to.”

Garth catcalled and clapped Dean on the back. “How long’s it been since you had a drink then?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam shuffle and bite at his lip. He ignored the gesture

“Too long, friend. Lead the way.”

Garth whooped and slung his arm around Dean’s shoulders, escorting him bodily from the room. He stopped at the threshold and turned to Sam embarrassedly. “You coming, Sam?”

Sam’s mouth opened and closed several times, and he blinked rapidly before answering: “No, no. I’ll… stay here. I have work to do.”

Dean pursed his lips and turned away. He knew it wasn’t fair to be mad at Sam. This marriage, this… urgh _baby_ , there was more leeway in the circumstance than Dean was currently prepared to allow his brother. He knew it, and he knew he was being a brat. But in the midst of petulance, and some righteous indignation, he was loath to admit it, for the next few hours at least.

“As you wish. Onward, good sir!” Garth galloped them from the house as though they were atop their steeds and Dean couldn’t help but ignore Sam’s disappointment for laughing heartily at his friend, now Slayer of Ardus’ antics. It felt good to have been missed.

…

It took him nearly an hour to make it to the pub. The people of the City knew his face, and he was hugged and kissed my practically every passer-by. Their eyes were wide as they questioned how he had returned from so long in the forest. If it hadn’t been for Garth’s hand on his arm, leading him through the crowd (who had a new deference for his orders, it seemed) he might not have even made it before nightfall.

Garth, however, brushed them aside with his gangly limbs and weak yells (for his voice succumbed quickly under the exertion): “Move aside, hero coming through!””

Upon entry to the pub he was greeted with a cheer that was even more raucous.

“The Slayer has returned!” Even above the yells, Balthazar’s voice was easy to make out, as he stood on the table and greeted Dean by throwing open his arms as if he would embrace him from across the room. As he gestured, the beer from the tankard in his left hand overflowed and drenched a passing serving girl. At first she seemed fairly affronted, but upon seeing who was to blame, she concealed her expression and continued about her duties.

Balthazar, grinning at Dean, tilted his head back and poured the remaining beer directly down his throat in one long gulp. When completed, he held his arms open towards the crowds and beat his chest. The crowd laughed and applauded as he leapt down from the table and pushed his way through the crowd to Dean, clasping him in a hug that was equally as constrictive as Garth’s had been. “We thought you were lost, brother.”

Dean grinned as he withdrew, and slapped Balthazar on the shoulder with far more force than necessary: “Here and in the flesh.”

Balthazar crowed as Dean hit him and raised his empty tankard high in the year, yelling above the cheers and whoops: “In the flesh!”

The crowed hollered excitedly and recited back: “In the flesh! In the flesh!”

Not one to waste time with pleasantries, when there was drinking to be done, Balthazar all but wrenched Dean away from Garth and dragged him towards the bar. He had almost made it there (to his grand relief – he needed a drink) when he was stopped again, and practically thrown over by Jo, who ran to him and threw her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. There were a few wolf-whistles at that, but Jo was hardly one to be embarrassed by her customers.

“Hey!” She released Dean and turned to the waiting room, whose raucousness died a little as she prepared to speak. When she did, she yelled, so loud that her voice cracked with the effort, “you will all address me with the respect my station deserves!”

Dean removed his arms from around her waist. “What’s that station, Jo? You know serving wench is the highest station in the land as far as these guys are concerned.”

She winked at him and slid her gaze over to Garth, who had fought his way through the waiting crowd to catch up. She kept her eyes on Dean as she approached him, turning only at the last minute to meet him, with a surprisingly tender press of lips. Immediately she whirled back, an excited grin on her face and an expectant expression.

Dean blinked once, as he processed what he had just witnessed. “Wha-?”

A second later, Jo raised her left hand, palm faced towards her, and wiggled her fingers meaningfully. At once, Dean’s gaze dropped to her fourth finger, where a small, but delicately engraved thin band of silver sat there. The sound in the room dulled, as though they were waiting with bated breath for the punchline. She grinned and yelled once again: “You will address me as the betrothed lady that I am!” There were a few catcalls from the bar, and one shout of “And never was a lady finer!” Jo hid the faint blush rising in her cheeks by arranging the fingers of the same hand she had just shown to Dean in a gesture only seen used by the City’s men when they were outside the watchful gaze of their wives or mothers. The room erupted in cheers again, and Garth was clapped so hard on the back by a few members of the Guard that he stumbled forward slightly.

Jo turned to Dean, elation visible through every pore of her being. Dean rushed to her and seized her in a fierce hug and pressed his face to her shoulders. “It’s true, Jo. Finest girl in the City. ” He felt her smile against his chest as he released her.

When she was free, Garth immediately approached and she leaned against his shoulder with an unexpected familiarity. Dean suppressed his shock at the oddness of the circumstance to reach forward and shake Garth’s hand firmly. “You’re a lucky man, Garth. When did this happen?”

 “When I got back from the Road. Life’s too short, you know?” Garth smiled sheepishly and looked down to Jo, who beamed at him.

“What he means is, I told him in no uncertain terms.” Dean registered Jo’s narrative, but couldn’t hel but watch as Garth’s eyes drifted to the floor, where his face changed to a small, secret looking smile that expressed his remembering the circumstance fondly. “Got tired of all the Guards coming in and leering at me like I’m a piece of meat. This one always came in and wanted to talk. When he came back, I told him to grow a pair and make an honest girl of me.”

“And I said yes.” Garth grinned from ear to ear and snaked his arm around her waist. She elbowed him playfully at the rise of a few cheers again, but not far enough that he lost his hold on her.

“We’ll be married on the first night of summer. I’m so happy you’ll be there, Dean.”

Dean smiled in earnest at her obvious joy. “Of course, Jo. Wouldn’t miss it.”

She beamed at him, before removing Garth’s arm from her waist, with a squeeze to his fingers that didn’t go unnoticed by Dean. As she sauntered back to the bar, she turned her head and winked at both of them. Dean couldn’t help but grin back. Once she was back to serving, to the celebration of those soldiers queuing there, Dean turned back to Garth.

“So that’s the ‘Garth’, then? Just talking to them?”

“There’s nothing more to it, Dean. Garth’d her good.” His eyes wandered to behind the bar, where Jo was standing, laughing with the Guards assembled there. “That, and I look damn good in a uniform.” He tore his eyes away from her to slap proudly at the Slayer’s emblem now emblazoned across is Guard’s uniform.

“I’m happy for you. Really.”

“And I’m happy you’re back, Dean. It hasn’t been the same without you.”

They smiled at each other for a few moments, before an already drunk soldier crashed into Garth and lead him away, singing drunkenly of a lady of raven hair and skin of sunshine. Garth followed amicably, and left Dean to take his leave.

It took Dean a while to take a moment for some peace. More of the Guard accosted him with hugs and cheers, and he made merry as best he could, repeating the story he had told Eve over and over until his throat ached and his eyes were watering a little with the effort of it all.

Balthazar stumbled over again too, far drunker now, and pressed him for the story when Dean had mercifully almost made it to the stairs.

“You slept in a cave, brother?”

Dean grinned and whacked Balthazar on the arm, knowing the Slayer’s penchant for making light of his ‘delicate’ features, and complaining of his other (nonexistent) delicacies as a man of the Road; as far as he was concerned, an aversion to male nudity was a sensible behavior – there were those that would burst his head open with a rock for failing to avert his gaze quickly enough and being called a prude was a worthy sacrifice for avoiding the appearance of those less concerned.

“Sure didn’t beat the beds of Ardus, my friend.”

“Or the company I’m sure.”

They both guffawed and Balthazar took another deep swig of his drink.

“They must have been swarming you in the winter.”

Dean swallowed and kept his expression light. It was easy, especially when Balthazar was in such a state as this, to forget the extensive experience he had on the Road. Cas and he had discussed it, and he knew there were a few holes in his story, particularly if anyone became curious as to see the site he had supposedly preserved himself in, injured and without assistance, for two months. Of course, he and Balthazar were friends, so he doubted Balthazar would seek out such holes. Still, under his bright blue, light gaze, Dean was careful as he responded.

“There were days, where… I thought I’d never make it out brother.”

“What made them leave? I’ve known them to haunt entrances for weeks on end and starve out whatever they find.”

Dean took a careful drink from his flagon, being careful not to look away to quickly before he told the lie.

“They… gave up, eventually. I suppose they get hungry. And I stayed quiet, right at the back. I think they would have barely seen or smelled me.”

“So you didn’t see?”

“No, uh-“

“BALTHIE! A SONG!” The jubilant cry came from the other side of the room. It was matched by cheers of acquiescence and a rising chant: “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

“Alright, alright, alright!” Balthazar tore his eyes away from Dean’s and made to leap atop the bar once again. Jo swatted at his feet good-naturedly, but he kept his touch light and danced away from her flicks, much to the amusement of the now-entirely intoxicated soldiers.

Dean took the opportunity to make his escape quietly and without ceremony, slipping through the door and up the stairs to the inn’s rooms. He located the first unlocked room and fled into it, slamming the door behind him and pressing back against the wood, shutting his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose and out through his mouth.

It was an only too welcome opportunity for a little silence, although the sounds of the celebration downstairs were muffled only by the door. It was so strange, to be back amongst such noise and merriment, after such tranquility in the forest. It had almost been too much too soon, and Dean had found himself momentarily desperate for air and space and solace. A little solitude, even after month’s with only Cas and the forest’s company, was a welcome relief.

It was wonderful to be home. Truly. But it was strange to see home so changed in such a short time. He had to admit, he had been surprised by Garth and Jo at first. He remembered talking with Cas about her and sharing with him the momentary thought that when he returned _he_ might be the man to make an honest woman of her.

When he’d seen Garth’s arm around Jo’s waist, there’d been a momentary flare of…  something. At first, he’d thought it was jealousy, or regret. But it wasn’t. Dean felt earnestly happy for them, and he couldn’t help but smile as he thought of the way they had watched each other across the bar. Garth was a good man, and the way Jo looked at him…. It was unexpected, sure. But it was right. Garth was a Slayer now, one of the most highly ranked and celebrated men in the City. The fact that he would be marrying a bar maid - before the Princess’ betrothal, no less - was nothing short of scandalous, even if she was better than all the ladies in the Palace put together. The fact that he and Jo were together meant it was all for love.

And Dean had seen it. In both of them. How they were both still slightly flustered around one another, and elated at the slightest touch. The way the cheers of the guard had made Jo glow, even though she’d brushed them off as vulgar.

But Dean felt something strange because of it. It tugged at his chest a little. A small, insistent nag. Like he’d forgotten something on the way here, and Garth and Jo had reminded him of what it was. Perhaps it was that, unlike Sam, he wasn’t punishing him for taking solace in one another in his absence. But Sam was his _brother_ , not his friend. He owed Dean more than he’d given.

Dean sighed and leaned forward a little bit, watching his feet. It was strange, seeing the City so changed in such a short space of time. Garth and Jo, Sam and Ruby. Sure, everyone said he’d been missed. Everyone said they’d toasted the other 23 that  hadn’t made it back to the City walls. But what significance had they had really? Sam had moved on, and set up a perfect life for himself quickly. Garth and Jo had found each other, and had planned for festivities only months after his death. Had anyone really been that affected?

In the forest, with Cas, it had been easy to imagine his significance. He was important to Cas, and it was obvious in everything he did. Cas was cold, certainly, but he had his own kind of warmth that Dean had steadily grown to appreciate over their months together. And it had pained Dean to see some of that warmth falter when he’d had to leave and return to the City. Back here, he was a leader, of course. But he’d been replaced, hadn’t he? Replaced sooner than he’d have been buried in his grave, if indeed there was one.

In the silence of this room, the sensation wracked him properly for the first time since he’d entered the City. Worthlessness. That’s what his ‘death’ on the Road had been. As had Rufus’, and Creedy’s, and Aiden’s and all the others that had fallen. Momentary blips to a city as unforgiving as the Road itself. Intermittent sadnesses that interrupted celebration and festivity. Nights that had never been wracked with the chorus of Angels’ screams across the empty forest – like a performance of the dying, designed to remind its audience of the inevitable painful demise guaranteed to all mortal beings and the dread that ought to accompany it.

Sure, everyone said they’d missed him. He didn’t doubt that Sam had and that he loved him. He didn’t doubt that Garth was glad to see him, and Balthazar looked forward to recommencing their drinking together. But his return was an unexpected joy, not a necessity. His loss was something that they’d gotten over, and whatever hole is violent death would have left had been filled. He would have suffered being torn apart. For nothing. All for nothing. He wondered idly if this was how Cas felt, when he realized his own predicament. And he chided himself at once. This wasn’t anywhere near comparable to Cas. Cas who was waiting in a dank, dark cottage in the middle of the forest, for nothing but an inevitable and horrifying future that he was forced to confront nightly with the Angels’ vile evening chorus. Cas, who had rescued Dean for this, knowing that the act would bring him closer to that horrendous fate. Cas, who had had no companionship but Dean for two hundred years on that godforsaken Road. Cas, who knew that he too was Godforsaken.

“Dean? Dean, are you up here?”

Jo knocked on the door tentatively, and Dean started, stepping forward quickly and wrenching it open. She blushed when he opened it, and looked away pointedly. Dean waited a few awkward moments before cottoning on. “Oh! No… I don’t have anyone in here with me, Jo.”

She looked into the empty room and grinned. “Thought it would have been quick work, even for you.”

Dean forced a smile, although it felt more like baring his teeth, and punched her lightly on the arm. She pinched him back. Then they said nothing, and her face fell.

“You alright up here?”

Dean paused thoughtfully before he answered. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… loud.” He gestured feebly to his ears and grimaced.

Her mouth twitched: “guess you’re not used to it anymore, huh?”

He smiled back at her. “Guess not. Come in.”

She shuffled in quietly and seated herself on the bed at the centre of the room, patting the spot beside her. Dean chuckled at the sight – only with Jo could he be certain she meant nothing by it, and she blushed at the chuckle at his implication made, looking away to compose herself before she bit back with a typically snappy retort:

“Get your mind out of the pigs’ slough, Winchester.”

“Sorry Jo, I forget myself in front of a proper lady.”

She swatted at him as he seated himself next to her, but her smile was friendly enough as she leaned forward to make herself comfortable, hunched over - thoroughly unladylike - and inclined her head towards him.

“Don’t you dare again.”

They grinned at each other for a few moments, before Dean dropped his gaze, aware that staring into the eyes of his newly-betrothed, childhood friend, while they were seated on a bed together might be a behavior he would have to avoid in future. He instead turned to look at her hands, which she fiddled with in her lap, scratching at the cuticles, in a somewhat uncharacteristically nervous manner.

Her eventual question made clear why:

“Are you alright, Dean?”

Dean bit his lip, but said nothing, instead favoring his hands and rubbing the calluses there, that had softened significantly over Winter. He felt himself blink a few times, although he was unsure of the reason why, other than to fill the silence that fell when he didn’t answer.

“I know that… well, I don’t know really, but… the Road is…”

Dean didn’t speak.

“Being out there, it must have been-“

Dean cut across her: “I’m used to it, Jo. I was fine. And I’m back now.”

She grimaced and moved her hand to pull a few strands of her light blonde hair behind her ear. She took a deep breath before she answered.

“It’s just… if you wanted… to talk, about what it was like out there-“

“You wouldn’t understand.”

She ignored the terse tone and laid her hand on his leg. “I know I wouldn’t. But Garth, he would. And Sam, he would try. Balthazar-“

“Honestly, Jo. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s over now. And I’m back.”

She pursed her lips and wound her hands together at her stomach.

“You know Dean, we didn’t forget you while you were away.”

Dean looked up sharply, and she met his eyes brazenly, knowing him for long enough to know she’d struck a nerve.

“No, I know-“

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He closed his mouth, knowing that now Jo had breached the topic, she wouldn’t let it drop until she had said what she had to say. Good luck to Garth in dealing with that aspect of her personality.

“I know, coming back, it seems like everyone moved on. With Garth and I, and…”

She let Sam and Ruby’s situation hand in the air, polite enough not to vocalize what was a privat matter, although she obviously knew.

“Yeah, well…” he raised his eyes to meet hers to meet hers.

“Don’t even try Dean. We were all wrecked. All of us. You know Garth didn’t just ride back here and get on bended knee. He came here straight after he arrived at the Gates, before he saw the Empress even, and he cried for three straight days. He wouldn’t eat or sleep or talk or anything. Even to me. And Sam… Dean, Ruby was all he had to hang onto. He thought you were dead. We were sure of it. You know they sent soldiers to look for you and clear the bodies? They wanted to bring you home. When they couldn’t find you, Balthazar stayed out for days looking. He had to come home and tell your brother that you’d been… _eaten_ by one of those things. Sam hit him.”

Dean grunted and looked down at his hands. He was ashamed, and he knew Jo was right, and the image of what had transpired made bile rise in his throat. The acidic taste was accentuated by the realization of the cruelty with which he had imagined that Sam had not mourned him at all – denying what his brother must have suffered In hiding from the party and dismissing Sam, he was being despicable. He himself had spent months living leisurely in Castiel’s cottage, and while he’d occasionally addressed the question, hadn’t properly thought of the words that might have been used, how Sam would have fallen to the ground crying, and what it would have meant to wake up every morning and see his empty room and imagine the vile circumstance of his death – far from home, torn to pieces, crying for his mother as he had every night of his childhood.

“You were an ass to him before you came here weren’t you?”

Goddamnit, Jo knew him to well. She’d known she would have to scold him before she’d even entered the room.

She reached for his arm, but didn’t bat him, like she usually would when she was reprimanding his childish ways. Instead she gave it a light squeeze. “You should go to him. I’ll make excuses for you here. Don’t force him to suffer more Dean.”

Dean nodded slowly, and lifted his gaze to meet hers, biting his lip.

“Don’t let the Road drive you crazy, Dean. We’ll all be here when it’s done.”

She reached out and clutched his hands lightly within both her own – they were far smaller in comparison, but just as calloused as Dean’s from the years they had spent training together as children.

Dean nodded curtly and left her abruptly, sliding out the back entrance to the inn and back to his cottage. When Dean arrived home, Sam was at his desk, and when he looked up, his face was a little tear-stained, and strained with the effort of reading by candlelight.

Dean let the door close silently behind him, and he held his brother’s gaze for a moment, before surging forward and capturing his brother in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

****

****


	10. Beneath It All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Here is the latest update, as promised! It's another extra-long one, for your reading pleasure (I have realised that each of these chapters is roughly dissertation length - I am writing a dissertation for you all once a week (usually in one rather intense day)). Thanks to your support and wonderful comments, it hardly feels arduous at all and I look forward to writing for you all every week. If only I weren't restrained by my corporate prison, I'd write a chapter for you every day!
> 
> Apologies that it's once again part of the slow burn build - no major action on this front yet. This is the final chapter, before Cas and Dean's relationship starts taking a turn. I'm looking at amalgamating a few of the next chapters to hurry things along (I know, they're irritating me too) - I've tried to have things happen sooner, but unfortunately these two need to take their time, and everytime I've tried to push them things have ended up totally out of character. I promise you though, things will come to fruition, both on the Dean/Cas front and on the culmination of the imprisonment circumstance. Once I have a draft of every chapter (a few are still bulletpointed), I'll get to a faster upload schedule :)
> 
> Hope you all had a wonderful week!
> 
> Liffe

** CHAPTER NINE **

** 1424 **

“I look ridiculous.”

** 2013 **

“Wait, did Dean and Sam talk?”

Jessica leaned forward on her chair and brought her palms together and bent then so that her index fingers rested against her lips. Even with the change of position, her body was restless with interest, and the couch and its occupants were subject to her impatient vibration.

“Yes. They were resolved.”

“But… what happened?”

Castiel sighed and threw a quick glance at Dean, who remained stoic at the corner of the couch, and hadn’t acknowledged the interruption and momentary cessation in storytelling.

“Dean never made me privy to all the details. There were aspects of his relationship with Sam about which he was very private – it was their particular bond. By the time he was prepared to speak of it… we had very little time left.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Cas.”

She withdrew, suddenly more placid in her demeanor and scratched at her nose nervously.

“Do not worry, Jessica, I was grateful for all the time we had together, even if it was never enough.”

She smiled back, but her lip trembled slightly. “You saw him again though?”

“Yes. And he had plenty more time with Sam, which I know he greatly desired. This tale is not all despair, Jessica. Dean was afforded some happiness. And so was I, in knowing him.”

** 1424 **

“I look ridiculous.”

“Come on, Dean. You’ve worn it before.”

Dean rolled his eyes at his reflection as he glowered at himself in the mirror. Sam stood behind him, adjusting his belt around his tunic. It was maroon, the color that marked him as a Scribe of the Palace. It was plain, since very little thought had been given to the ceremonial garb of the scribes (the expectation being they would prefer to recluse rather than attend social ceremonies). It was infinitely preferable to Dean’s costuming too. He, unlike his brother, was clad in a long black tunic, which puffed sleeves and trousers that, in combination with his already muscular frame, had the overall effect of making him look monstrously wide. The shirt and trousers beneath, rather unfortunately, were in the bright fire red that Lilith was so often dressed in, and assembled from a gaudy and stiff fabric that chafed under Dean’s armpits and, well, other uncomfortable places that he’d rather not be aware of.

“Never worn it in my life, Sammy. I’m more about a different of celebration, you know?”

He waggled his eyebrows in the mirror, locking eyes with his brother momentarily, and Sam sighed, exasperated.

“Keep it to a minimum tonight? This whole thing is _for you_ , Dean. You can’t just slip off with some girl halfway through.”

Dean glowered even worse at that, and yanked down on his tunic sharply - petulant. “If it’s _for me_ , someone could have asked what _I_ wanted.” He knew perfectly well his name was only to be touted as an excuse at the event, for debauchery and opulence, and to fill the courtiers’ ears with interesting gossip until the next grand event. The night before had been far more preferable, in Dean’s mind. He and Sam had stayed up late talking, and while Dean had kept Castiel out of the conversation, he was as honest as he could be with his brother. That moved them to discuss other things – most prominently, how Sam had managed to impregnate a woman that had made a vow of chastity to the Empress. Sam embarrassedly described it as an act of comfort after grief, and while Dean still felt a little put out, he was at least glad that Ruby _had_ been there for Sam, even if that meant forsaking her vows.

“It’s important, Dean. The fact that you’re back - it changes things.”

“Yeah, yeah I’ll behave myself.” Dean’s nose twitched as he stared at himself in the mirror again – uncannily reminiscent of a jester, aside from the stupid hat. Luck would have it that he’d turn up and be instructed to don one of those too.

Sam opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by the trill of Ruby in the doorway – her arrival having been hidden by untrustworthily soft footsteps.

“Well don’t you look dashing?” The pronouncement was theatrical, but the tone sincere enough. Still, the old bait slipped from Dean’s mouth before his mind could catch up with it.

 “I know I’m a handsome devil, but you’re spoken for now Ruby. Keep yourself under control.” Seeing Ruby so familiar now with their lodgings was new, and it was hard to remember how much has changed – that Ruby, contrary to all expectations, was a fixture now.

It was easier though, when Ruby barely even acknowledged the jibe, instead tilting her head up to give Sam a chaste peck on the lips before turning to Dean, with that same uncharacteristically toothy smile: “you look very handsome as well, Dean.”

Dean stared at her momentarily, shocked once again by the almost pleasant change in her demeanor. “Yeah, uh, thanks,” he muttered gruffly before turning away and modestly trying to rearrange the way his pants sat to avoid… discomfort.

Sam and Ruby were murmuring behind him, choosing to pass through the momentary awkwardness smoothly. “We don’t need to stay too long. I don’t want you to have to be on your feet all night.”

“I’ll be fine, Sam. I _want_ to celebrate Dean’s return.”

Sam huffed, but he accepted the assurance.

“Are you sure this is alright? If you feel tired, you’ll tell me?”

“Of course. Don’t worry. In a few more weeks we can tell them.”

From the corner of his eye, Dean could see the way Sam’s hand dragged protectively across Ruby’s stomach as he spoke and his fingers twisted gently into the cloth.

“Yeah, uh, Dean?” He raised his voice to normal volume. “No one knows about Ruby yet. It’s got to stay a secret for another month or so. Just until we’re sure. So don’t mention it, alright?”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean muttered, glaring himself down in the mirror, furiously trying to unpuff the shape of his trousers around his legs, “got it.”

Sam looked him up and down, a small smile playing around his lips, which he smothered under Dean’s furious gaze. “Alright, we best get down there. Just a minute-“

He rushed back into his bedroom quickly and left Dean and Ruby standing awkwardly together. True to her new polite demeanor, Ruby went to Dean’s side and started tugging at his trousers, without so much as an “excuse me”, pulling them into a slightly less voluminous shape: “They’re stiff because you haven’t worn them enough. When the fabric softens they’ll look better.” She watched the shape of the trousers as they slowly rectified themselves (as much as that could occur) in the mirror.

Dean stiffened a little as he felt her hands tug on the material. It struck him that this was the first time, in the year since he’d known Ruby that they’d even come close to physical contact. And Ruby appeared completely unbothered by it, as though it had been the nature of their relationship all along.

“Great. Uh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She righted herself and quickly checked her face in the mirror, running her index finger along her eyebrows a few times to pull them into shape and pinching her cheeks to bring color to them.

“So, uh, pregnancy really agrees with you huh?”

She didn’t meet his gaze in the mirror, instead moving to straighten the gaudy and bejeweled necklace at her neck. It looked like it was worth the life’s wages of a palace servant, it was so massive.

“Being married to Sam agrees with me. I’m the happiest woman in the kingdom.” She smiled beatifically, still enraptured in her reflection.

“Yeah, guess it’s going around.”

She smiled politely, but made no reply. Faced with a resolute silence, Dean turned to look back in the mirror, smoothing his hair down to justify the silence as politely as he could in the interim.

“Are you happy for us, Dean?”

Ruby’s question was nonchalant, and as she spoke she twisted in the mirror,  smoothing her hands down her front and back as she checked her silhouette (presumably for the sight of any intimation as to her secret).

“Yeah. Uh. Well, I mean…. We haven’t always got on. But… if you’re both happy. Then that’s enough.”

“Good.” She gave a final tug to her dress and turned to face him. “You better bear that in mind from now on. Sam and I are married now, and we’re going to have a baby. That means you can’t try to take him away from me anymore. I’m his now. He will always choose me. And if you do anything – _anything_ – to threaten us. I will make him choose.”

The pleasant smiles she had been making all evening were now made plain in light of her words. Suddenly the sneer he had been so used to was re-written in every line of her face again, and her eyes were cold.

Dean had been wary – he’d been careful. He didn’t trust her. But still, in light of the quick and brutal revelation that things were as tense between them as ever, Dean couldn’t help but feel disappointed, and a burst of shock rush across his skin in response. Dean kept his voice low when he answered, cautious of Sam hearing in the next room: “Were you even sad when you thought I was dead?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, as she finally turned away to meet his gaze. “Contrary to what you might think, I love Sam. And I was sad for him, because he loves you.”

She moved closer, so her voice was low like Dean’s and she was breathing her words into his ear. “But I thought it was for the best. Whenever you go away, it destroys him. And then when you come home you criticize him for everything. Including me. And you try your best to lead him down the wrong path, and to damn him. To have him drink and womanize like you do. But he’s more than that. He’s in the circle of the Princess now and he can serve a higher purpose. I’m leading him to salvation. I love Sam, with everything I have, and I will protect him against you.”

She pulled away, the same smile she had manufactured for him all day now re-plastered across her face. But now Dean could see the way the light glinted off her teeth, where they were wet with spit. It was menacing, and it reminded him of the sharp teeth of the Angels, when they bared their own at him in menace.

Dean was transfixed, almost as if her face morphed before him. This was, perhaps for the first time, the truest Ruby Dean had ever seen. Not merely the devoted courtier, but the ruthless one. The dangerous one. Ruby had always been an irritance – intolderable, rude, selfish and conniving. But as far as Dean was concerned, her mind was filled with social climbing strategems, and flirtation manuals. He believed she liked wealth and power and comfort, and was so distorted by the courtly life that she could only find entertainment by the most excessive of means. In short, she was unsuitable for Sam, and her presence therefore annoyed Dean. But her belief that she was adhering to a higher order – one in which Dean was a path to Sam’s damnation, and her a path to his salvation – that was new, and lethal. Sam worshipped, of course, the whole City did – in thanks to the Empress and the gift God had bestowed upon her to protect the City. But he’d never abstained the way Ruby had – he gambled on occasion, he’d stolen in his youth, he’d certainly lusted, and (as far as Dean believed, anyway), he’d enjoyed the company of other woman (maybe not fully, Sam was a prude after all, but enough that any proper adherent of the Empress’ teachings would wish to wash their hands of him). In short, he was like many of the men that lived outside the castle – happy enough to go along with the prevailing norm, but not to subscribe to the kind of rigid adherence that Lilith expected of her courtiers.

But now he was marrying Ruby – the woman with an agenda that she would hold to fastidiously above all else. This wasn’t just about _having_ Sam – about winning – it was about _saving_ Sam. Even if Dean was prepared to concede to whatever rules she had concocted, it might not be enough to hold to the fundamental, non-negotiable line she had drawn in the sand for herself – she on one side, and Dean on the other, and Sam straddling the middle.

“Got it!” Sam called from the next room, and he returned to them both a moment later, pinning a small brooch bearing the mark of the Empress to his tunic. “Are we ready?”

“Ye-yeah.” Dean glanced sidelong to Ruby, who was bared her teeth back at him in what Dean supposed was a smile, although it was difficult to make out through the triumphant glaze.

“Absolutely darling. Let’s go.” She stepped forward, daintily and soundlessly (so well practiced from years of sneaking around and listening at keyholes, Dean though rudely), taking Sam’s proffered arm and beaming up at him.

Sam smiled between them, his eyes flickering back and forth as they attempted to read the circumstance. “And we’re getting along?”

“Perfectly,” she preened, “I’m so happy to have Dean home.”

…

After his little conversation with Ruby, there was nothing Dean would have liked more than to drink himself to stupor that night. But, after his first tankard, any move he had made to obtain his own flagon of whatever was being served was intercepted by Sam, and accompanied by a threatening raise of an eyebrow from Ruby.

So he was forced to endure the tedium unaided. Sure, there were plenty of good things that should have made it a pleasant enough night. There was fine food, plenty of pretty women (many of whom had brushed past Dean with coy glances on multiple occasions), music and dancing.

Dean would never admit that he enjoyed the latter. It was a pleasure saved for a completely drunken audience, who could be assured the next day that what they had seen was nothing more than a figment of their imagination. In public audiences, he was obliged to enjoy only watching – but that was enough to stir a little pulse of rhythm inside him that followed the beat with enjoyment, and phantom twitches in his arms and legs as they followed the choreography he imagined he would perform were the room empty, but would never allow himself to do.

But none of it was enjoyable, even without Ruby’s threat weighing on his mind. The food and drink were merely picked at by courtiers, who wiped their fingers in repulsion every time their hands came in contact with that they were content to ingest, but not to touch. The women were silly and giggly, and the few Dean had addressed (even just asking them to move so he could get at the suckling pig) trilled stupidly and preened. And the dancing was dull, choreographed stepping. According to Sam, it was meant to facilitate flirtation amongst the courtiers, who were otherwise bound by courtesy to keep a safe distance from one another. He and Ruby certainly seemed to enjoy it, and they kept their eyes fixed on one another even when they were forced to change partners.

None of it was to the amusement of Dean, however, who stood sourly in a corner for most of the evening and let his mind wander. He was, naturally, mainly occupied with thoughts of Ruby’s threat against him, and whether she really had the traction she said she did. He’d been foolish to let the dislike grow, he knew. Granted, he’d never expected she’d stay around as long as she had. Sam was only young, and Ruby was his first serious attachment. Scribes, those who did marry at least, never became attached to courtiers – the lifestyles were too incompatible.

But now they were attached, in more ways than one, and it was Dean and not Ruby who as at threat of not being around to counter whatever allegations one raised against the other. Whatever her agenda – to drive a wedge between them or not - the longer Dean was on the Road, the more time she would have to manipulate Sam. Perhaps by the time he returned she would have done irreparable damage. Dean loved his brother more than anyone, and trusted him not to listen to the worst of Ruby when they had only been lovers. But now she was promising him the family that Sam had always wanted for himself and Dean and their father. Maybe that would trump Dean in the general scheme of things. Maybe that would be enough to push Dean out.

He would no doubt be given some time before he was summoned to the Road again, but once trading became regular in the summer months, he’d barely be at home in the City. Perhaps a few days of every month at the most. If Ruby decided to make good on her threat, he’d have no opportunity to defend himself against her charges. And to lose Sam was the worst outcome imaginable.

If he stayed off the Road he could temper her efforts. He would be there when their child was born, and help raise it. He could try to join them at celebrations and look after Sam like he had when they were younger.

But at the back of his mind hung the thought of Castiel, and the lonely little cottage that he would inhabit indefinitely. If he stayed off the Road, he’d never repay what Castiel had done for him, and he’d sentence the Angel to however many more years of misery and isolation. Of course, Cas had assured him that there was no debt owed. Cas given him his life so he could return to his brother, and continue to serve his people, not stay in the forest. And Cas, as selfless he was, would never think badly of Dean for not returning to him.

But it wasn’t just an obligation that made Dean think of Cas. He _wanted_ to see him again, and talk to him, and laugh at the way he curled up to sleep like a cat. He wanted to tell Cas about Sam and Ruby, and Garth and Jo – ask for his advice and understanding, even if that only meant a blank stare and a tilt of the head as Cas tried to work logic into human idiosyncracies. And Dean, so curse him, wanted to know what Cas was doing. How his damn vegetables were growing, and whether he’d found any new berry-picking spots. Dean wanted to hear more - about Castiel when he was a soldier, and the brothers and sisters he had lost. And he wanted to know that Castiel was safe. That he’d arrived back at his cottage, and it was secure against the Angels. And that he hadn’t done anything stupid to keep them away from Dean on his way home.

Castiel wasn’t Sam. He wasn’t _family_. But he was a friend, and Dean had an obligation to him now too as well as Sam. But how he was supposed to balance that against Ruby’s threat was uncertain. His only thought was that he wouldn’t let her compromise anything, between him and Sam or Cas. If she wanted to play simpering sweet, he could play too. And he’d make sure to best her at her own game. That was what she had asked for, after all? Merely that he not “try anything”. Dean could do that – he could try nothing at all. Continue as instructed and as amenably as possible. Whatever he could do to keep Sam safe from her exclusive clutches. And whatever meant he could help Cas, in any way that he could.

“Remembering better days?” The low voice was familiar enough to break Dean’s otherwise intense focus and he turned his head to see Lydia, dressed in the same garb as Ruby, biting her lip teasingly at him. “One would almost think you weren’t glad to be back.”

She gave a little curtsey for Dean – formal - as though they barely knew each other, under the watchful eye of her husband on the other side of the room. Dean followed it with an equally awkward bow and moved a little closer so he could murmur to her lightly, with the playful warmth that had not been lost since he last saw her.

“Good to see you, Lydia.”

“You too, Slayer. You look remarkably well for a man who was once dead.” She cocked her eyebrow at him, and made no effort to hide the fact she was surveying his body, at least that which wasn’t obscured by his comical garb. Dean took the pause as a moment to recover, and resume the tone of cordial flirtation, driving the heaviness from his voice that accompanied his concerns about Ruby. To that, later – he needed to know more about what Ruby wanted before he could proceed.

“Did you miss me?”

Lydia raised one shoulder minutely, as though it weren’t worth the effort of going further to demonstrate her lack of care.

“Perhaps. Much has happened since you were away. I’ve been rather distracted from your absence.”

Dean didn’t answer except to raise his eyebrows meaningfully, and Lydia turned her eyes to where Ruby and Sam were lost in each other on the dance floor, standing on opposite sides of two lines of people, smiling at some secret joke.

“It was quite the scandal. More so even when they make the announcement.”

Dean’s eyes flashed back to her, but he let his body follow more slowly – anyone watching would believe that they were merely observing the room and continuing small talk. Lydia, however, picked up on his wide gaze, and merely chuckled luxuriously, deep in her throat,

“Oh I know all about it. I’d say at least half the court suspects. There’s no other reason to do something so improper as marry a mere month after your brother’s supposed death.”

Dean gaped at her and made an anxious _be quiet_ expression with one hand, which he hid with the slant of his body to the majority of the room.

She raised an eyebrow at the gesture, and pursed her lips around a smile that threatened to emerge, marking her amusement at his uncouth communications.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry. There’s far more interesting gossip to be had at court than that little morsel. It’s only a scrap in the general scheme of things.”

She let her eyes flicker up to dance floor again, this time focusing on the Princess Lilith, who was currently being partnered by the Alastair. He was beaming at her like she was the most enchanting thing that had ever graced the land, and while she moved deliberately and carefully – every inch royally trained- she was smiling wide and tossing her head back occasionally in laughter.

“Interesting, isn’t it? A very recent development, comparatively.”

“Oh.” Dean let his eyes follow their movement as they padded across the floor in time with the other dancers, leading the dance at the head of the train.

“Mm.” Lydia raised a hand to study her fingernails, murmuring lightly: “They are not betrothed.”

She threw him a sidelong and meaningful glance, but Dean only stuttered and raised his eyebrows.

“Interesting… I guess?”

“Hm”. She let her eyes return to the floor where she followed their movement closely. “More interesting that you do not find it interesting in the slightest.”

Dean turned to her, cheeks flushed and somewhat confused.

“I’m not sure what-“

“You would do well to, Slayer.”

She stepped away, clearly marking the conversation’s end, and threw a coy glance over her shoulder, before returning to her husband and allowing him to take her hand and lead her to the dance floor also. There, they lined up behind Balthazar, and his unfortunate partner (Sarah, another of the Princess’ maids), who did her best to stay upright and graceful as Balthazar stumbled drunkenly through the steps, hand drifting far too low to the small of her back. Lydia glowered at their inept performance, and gave the pair a wide berth with her husband, where they took to dancing with supreme courtly finesse – masking what Dean knew to be a fair amount of distaste, on Lydia’s side at least.

Dean was mercifully left alone for some minutes, during which time he appraised the dancers, and Lilith and Alastair in particular, who danced together for three straight dances, before he retired with a sweeping bow, and she with a delicate curtsey. What on earth did Lydia mean? It wasn’t that he didn’t find the development interesting. After all, Lilith had kissed him before he had left for the Road, and the flirtation had been brazenly obvious. Sure, Alastair may have been making inroads in the meantime, but it hardly mattered in the general scheme of things. Lilith, at 22, was far too young to be making any major decisions regarding suitors, and even so, flirtation was a courtly necessity to keep things interesting. The true motivation for her decision would be the requirement for a strong leader for the city and was to be made when she reached the age of 25.

Even then, did it really matter? Dean was a Slayer – his position and influence would always be secure, with or without Lilith’s interest. Certainly, Alastair and Dean had different methods, and Dean did find the man a little odd, but Dean respected him as he would any Captain who had awarded the City his life and livelihood. The Road was perilous and draining, and whatever they might disagree on, he and Alastair were brothers in that regard. If Lilith would prefer him at the helm for commanding the City’s Slayers and soldiers, Dean could have no qualms about that. Whatever was best to protect his brother and the City, he would agree with wholeheartedly. And he did not doubt, like those before him, Alastair would be prepared to sacrifice everything for the City. He was a good soldier. And no doubt a good leader.

It was Lydia’s interest that was interesting, more than anything else. Based on her station at the Princess’ side, and her relationship with Dean, it would have been safer to assume she would have preferred Alastair installed in the position. Dean’s marriage to Lilith would obviously necessitate their relations to cease. Regardless, Dean imagined it would have been uncomfortable for them to spend so much time in such close proximity, given the intimacy of their previous arrangement. It wasn’t that Lydia had feelings for Dean – he wasn’t fool enough to imagine that. But surely it would be hard to keep straight faces around each other and maintain the necessary informalities, when they’d been as informal as it was possible to be.

Of course, Lydia was nothing if not supremely courtly, and perhaps she imagined that such awkwardness would be worth having the ear of the Lord Protector were Dean were installed in Samuel Campbell’s stead. However, given her high status at court already, there was little Dean could offer she didn’t already have, and he didn’t doubt she could incur the same favor of Alastair with enough effort. In fact, as far as the rest of the court was concerned, she was far more intimate with Alastair than Dean – they often engaged in playful flirtation at events such as these and, true to form, as Dean considered that, he saw them take the dancefloor together – Lydia dancing coyly and making whispered little remarks to Alastair as he passed her in the choreographed steps that made him grin and respond with a wicked glint.

He’d put it down then to Lydia just being Lydia and fishing for morsels of gossip to relay to her Princess – if Dean weren’t interested in Lilith, she’d at once want to know which woman had caught his eye. It would be the talk of the City, to have two Slayers take partners before the Princess had chosen from amongst them and no doubt it would reflect poorly on her anticipated leadership. He was sure, when she was in his arms later, panting and whining, she might be more forthcoming with the motivation for her interest.

Dean couldn’t help but get lost in those thoughts momentarily as he leaned against the wall and surveyed the dance floor. It had been three months since he’d last known the pleasure of a woman, and whilst he was used to long spells, he usually had the reprieve of his own company once in a while. But living in such close quarters with Cas, he’d hardly had the time, or much of an inclination. There was embarrassment there too – he knew that Cas was equipped with a superhuman sense of smell, and he didn’t rather like the idea of Cas knowing exactly what he got up to when he went to the woods alone. Cas certainly never made such excuses himself, and Dean had come to assume Cas simply didn’t bother with that sort of thing. That had made him more embarrassed still, as though the need were somehow despicable.

Dean was largely distracted from Lilith’s approach, as he had been with Lydia’s,  and it wasn’t until the heady scent of lilacs hit him that he was jolted out of his reverie, and was forced to make a quick and embarrassed bow.

“Forgive me, my Princess.”

Lilith preened at the title, and gave him one of her kinder stares.

“There is no forgiveness required, Slayer. I imagine, after your time away from us, it must be jarring to be surrounded by such familiar things.”

“Yes, uh…” she appraised him with a quirked smile,, “but, uh… not unwelcome.” At what she presumably took as a compliment she smiled sweetly, in a way that was not unlike the expression Ruby had acquired of late. Lilith must have been Ruby’s inspiration for the expression – simpering.

“It must have been dull without entertainment for the entirety of winter. I wonder at how you amused yourself in the forest.”

Dean bit his tongue until he could think of a suitable reply – one which didn’t impolitely point out the fact that recreation was all but impossible on the Road, where mindless, winged beasts that were once divine sought out blood. That kind of statement would be too unsuitable for the ears of a lady of the court, aside from being rude. She would surely be minded to faint.

“With thoughts only of my return to your service, Princess.”

“ _Oh!_ ” She giggled. “Well how charming you are, Slayer. I am sure you exaggerate.”

Dean grimaced, but pursed his lips to hide it. This kind of courtly flirtation didn’t suit him well. Lilith talked like Lydia, but at least with Lydia he knew she did not expect flattery in return. She was enigmatic, certainly, and it was entertaining. Lilith, by contrast, seemed to speak in riddles, but without the same substance.

“No, my Princess. I promise,  I thought only of returning to protect you and keep you from harm. You are Ardus’ greatest treasure.”

She giggled again and extended her hand to him. He stared at it, confused, momentarily, before taking it and carefully raising it to his lips. She broke into peals of laughter at the contact, but let her hand remain in his.

“To the contrary, Slayer, I had only indicated I wanted to dance.”

Dean dropped her hand immediately, and stepped back, bowing as low as he could and then raising again, holding his hands in front of him in apology. “My Princess, I-“

“There is no need, Slayer. I am rather fascinated by this turn of events, in fact. Will you escort me?”

This time, when she held out her hand, Dean took the proper route, and lead to her towards the line of pairs dancing in the centre of the room. The music finished as they approached, and the players assembled to commence another song. Around then, pairs bustled onto and off the floor, many taking the chance to snatch small, flirtatious touches that were otherwise disallowed in ordinary conversation.

 Lilith took her place opposite Dean at the head of the line (as was the only appropriate place for the Princess to dance, except when her mother and father were also on the floor) and the stood apart, facing in front of them until the music began. It was a song Dean knew (much to his relief) and the steps were slow and simple. They started by stepping forward, rising on their toes and then falling as they went backwards. The action was repeated several times, until they turned to face one another. Dean extended his hand, and Lilith curtsied for him. As he lead her around in a clockwise circle, and then paused and turned them both so they could change directions, she smiled widely at him.

“You dance well, Slayer.”

“My Princess is too kind.”

He narrowly avoided a collision with a passing pair with a nimble step that kept his feet in the proper position, and Lilith graciously failed to acknowledge it. They danced in silence for some time more until Lilith spoke again.

“It is refreshing to have such a silent companion. Too many are too willing to natter poetry in my ear.”

Dean quicked a smile and met her eyes. She beamed at him: “are you a wordsmith, Slayer?”

“My talents lie elsewhere, my Princess.”

“No doubt.” She bit her lip as she walked past him and rotated in a circle around him, while he made a small bow.

“You are a man of few words.”

“I am afraid you would be shamefully embarrassed if I tried to be more, your Highness.”

She laughed lightly and turned in front of him, keeping her eyes on his for as long as she could before she was forced to take her head in the direction of her body. She finished with a long and low curtsey (although she did not go so low as the other ladies in the line, for it would be embarrassing to her status to do so). “Nonetheless, you communicate well enough.”

Dean had no time to contemplate or even respond to the statement before she whirled, and sauntered back to her ladies’ maids, who were once again assembled in a giggling group and appraising him. He swept them a more confident bow this time, and Sarah and two others – Bela and Portia, burst into giggles. Lilith joined them calmly, and at once they converged upon her, touching her lightly upon the arm and throwing meaningful glances at Dean as he watched them.

Dean, now he was upon the dance floor, was otherwise occupied for most of the evening, by women who were no doubt desperate to hear tales of his bravery first hand. One by one, they offered increasingly more suggestive propositions in his ear, such that even a sailor in Rehin would be made to blush, and he excused himself from their attentions for refreshments. Lilith, for the duration, seemed hardly offended, and she spent much of the evening either on the floor herself with some of the higher ranked men of the kingdom or her father, or watching her other courtiers.

Dean was met by Alastair, in one of his breaks, at the refreshment bowl, who greeted him in his characteristically cool manner, and strangely cracked, reedy voice.

“Welcome home, Dean.” The platitude did not extend to his tone. He was an odd kind of man, so said everyone, although Dean supposed a life on the Road could do that to a person and he tried not be judgmental.

Dean kept his tone merry, and smiled at the greeting.

“I am glad to see you, Alastair. How have the men been keeping?”

“Well enough. I’ve kept them well drilled in your absence.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Alastair’s face remained implacable, so Dean laughed to fill the silence.

“How were you kept on the Road? That must have been some shelter to keep you from harm’s way.” If Dean hadn’t known Alastair for as long as he had, he would have sworn there was some disappointment there, so strange was Alastair’s manner of speaking. But the man merely stared at him cooly, with his oddly disjointed grin.

“You’ve heard rumors, eh? I’m sure they’re more exciting than the main event.”

“Everything from an underground hideout dug by your own hand, to a trained Angelus as a guard dog.”

Dean grinned and took a swig of his punch.

“Neither, I’m afraid. Just a well-concealed cave and some sigils. Standard survival training.”

“Heh.” Alastair gave one of his odd kind of smiles, where, for whatever reason, he did not bring his teeth together but instead let his jaw hang loose.

“That must have been some cave. You must show me some time on the Road. A well-concealed hide might be worth something if the forests are getting more dangerous.”

“Ah… it was a way off the Road. Quite a ride. But yeah… if we get a break some time during trading, I can give you directions.”

Horse crap. Such interest was outside what Dean had hoped. He would have to hope he could get Cas to corroborate the tale by then and locate some kind of suitable hide before he was required to escort Alastair. In fact, he wondered if locating and equipping hides might be something Cas would be interested in doing during his idler times. They could be crucial for men left stranded after an attack, and it might  keep Cas occupied over the summer months, when his food was more plentiful, and keep him from slowly rotting in that dingy little cottage.

“The Guard is meeting four days from now, to discuss trading patterns to commence in the next fortnight. If you need time to recover, we are of course prepared to provide for you.”

“No, no. I’ll be there. It’ll be good to see the men.”

“There is training tomorrow, just after dawn, if you are prepared.”

Dean took another swig of his drink and nodded as he swallowed.

“Absolutely.”

“I have been leading it, in your absence. But no doubt you should take up that mantle again. Your tale or survival will no doubt be … riveting.”

Alastair gave an odd sort of cackle on the last word and another of those strange smiles. Dean grinned nervously back and let Alastair take his leave. He watched as the rest of the party gave him a wide berth as he reapproached their Majesties, and bowed before them, before once again escorting Lilith to the floor.

The rest of the night passed quickly, and he was not left to endure many more simpering attentions before Lydia slipped past him and whispered that her husband planned to proceed to a late night cards game with the husbands of some of the other ladies, and would likely be too intoxicated to return home. Several hours later, after Lilith had dismissed her ladies and Dean had managed to sneak away, they found themselves together in her chambers, naked and rocking into one another breathlessly. She avoided his questions about her interest in his interest in Lilith with clever little maneuvers that left him sweating and panting into her mouth, until eventually he was forced to concede, and let her fall asleep against him while he was left to stare at the ceiling and wonder as to Cas’ whereabouts, and hope that he was staying safe in the increasingly dangerous forest.

…

Sam wasn’t in his room when Dean returned just before dawn. Presumably, he had stayed in Ruby’s rooms that night, as he had said that in Dean’s absence he had become accustomed to sleeping there, fearing staying in the empty house on his own.

Dean didn’t mind, and found himself some breakfast (in a pantry Sam had enthusiastically stocked upon his return) and jogged to soldiers’ training. He was only marginally late for warm up, but Alastair pursed his lips slightly nonetheless. Balthazar, however, who also stood in front of the men, who were doing strength exercises on the ground, gave a knowing guffaw and a wink and Garth, beside him, chortled. Dean was forced to recite his well-rehearsed tale once again, and fend off intrusive questions, before the group commenced with weapon drilling exercises, using staffs, knives, bows and swords. Balthazar, Garth and Alastair took on the role of Angelus for the soldiers, who were required to fend off an attack not dissimilar to that Dean had experienced several months ago. The sight of the reenactment made bile rise in Dean’s throat and he had to excuse himself temporarily to fend off a mild panic attack. Despite the insensitivity of it, Dean couldn’t fault the practice. Too many had lost their lives in the attack on Dean’s carriages, and if at all possible, mistakes should be exposed and discussed, for the preservation of the lives of the soldiers now before him. They were young, some only just eighteen, and scared. Whatever could be done to give them some years, before the Road took them, then that was enough. They owed them that as their captains. The other Slayers were kind enough not to acknowledge his absence when he returned, except Alastair who threw him a sympathetic smile.

Still, Dean couldn’t calm his churning stomach for the remainder of the training session, and he was forced to drill on his own while the other Slayers commanded the group. He rejoined them when they commenced their warm down, just before midday. It did little for his rising nerves though, for the warm down consisted of Alastair’s debrief, in which he made several emotive declarations.

“The monsters that wait for you out there. They are like nothing you have ever seen. They are driven by one urge, and one urge only. To destroy you and devour you as though they were cattle. They are vile and putrid. They would seize our children from their beds if they could. From now and always, your lives are forfeit. They are owed to the City to defend them from this terror of terrors. Wield your weapons with menace and with power, and tear the creatures apart. Wrench their wings from them and burn them, for that it what they have done to us in forcing us to retreat behind these walls. Destroy them. Fight. And protect your kingdom as you would protect your own life, and even fiercer again.”

Dean swallowed through the speech, in an effort to calm himself away from speaking and to offer new found clarification on matters in the forest. He knew Alastair spoke the truth, largely, and Cas wouldn’t disagree that defence was necessary for the sake of the city, even if it meant bloodshed. The Angels were animals now. Whatever they had been, it had been eradicated from them, by whatever strange force had turned them so thoroughly animal. But still, Dean thought of Cas back in the woods, gentle and caring, and despaired that he should watch his brothers and sisters so hunted by humans when they had once been of the same kind as him. And even worse, that he would one day be the same creature. And soldiers like these boys would be obliged to seek him out, and injure or kill him, for the sake of the safety of the city.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth after he left the training arena, and Balthazar caught up with him, using a rag to wipe sweat from his brow.

“Some speech wasn’t it?”

“Hm.”

Dean swallowed and made no further response. There was little to say on the matter. The speech was what the young men needed to hear, even if its aggression was distasteful to Dean and would have left Cas in silence for hours, had he heard it.

“He’s been like that since Garth returned… stirring.”

“I suppose it supports the men.”

“Hmph.” Balthazar, ran the rag through his hair, curled and dark with sweat. “Not entirely to my tastes, to be honest. I wouldn’t have thought yours either.”

“Of course not.” They stopped in the shade of the city square and took shelter beneath one of the trees planted there. Dean squirted himself with his waterskin and rubbed the sweat off his face, and offered it to Balthazar, who took a swig before doing the same.

“Garth feels the same.”

Balthazar looked to Dean, and met his eyes. Dean merely furrowed his brow in response and looked away.

Balthazar continued then, seemingly unperturbed from continuing whatever he had to say: “Despite his inexperience, I think he’ll lead a squad well. Keep them safe.”

Dean thought back to Garth, commanding the men with Balthazar and Alastair that morning. He was uncertain, to be sure, but he’d been well-trained and he was quick, even if he had something of a goofy exterior.

“I think you’re right. Once he gets over his nerves, I think he’ll be fine.”

“He’s taking the first squad out. Next fortnight. And then another the next month.”

Dean smirked as he mentally calculated the dates.

“That’s very close to the wedding.”

Balthazar chuckled. “He may wear the mark of a Slayer, but that means nothing as far as Jo’s concerned. We ought to pity him in breaking that news.”

Dean laughed back: “She’s the most terrifying foe in all of Ardus when she’s got the bit between her teeth.”

“We should bring her to training to terrify the lazy ones.”

Dean broke into proper peals of laughter then and Balthazar joined him heartily, clapping him on the shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back Dean. Things haven’t been the same.”

Slowly the laughter faded and they took to once again staring out into the square, where the bustle of a morning market provided enough occupation for several minutes. Eventually, with a  half-groan, half-sigh and a grumble, Balthazar pulled himself up from the step and stretched.

“I say it’s well past midday. The Brown Bear’ll be open. Join me?”

Dean chortled and shook his head. He pulled himself up, wincing at the sensation of some already stiffening muscles from his first proper training session in months and dusted off his trousers – it was a fruitless exercise – they were still wet with sweat and gravel and dirt clung to them mercilessly.

“Not today. I’m hoping to eat with Sam. He’ll finish at the library by the time I’ve washed.”

“As you choose.” Balthazar gave a quick nod and turned to stride across the square. He was still light on his feet, even after the innumerable years on the Road and the injuries he had sustained. He laughed and joked with those sellers in the market whom he passed, who tried to peddle their wares. A few were lucky enough to receive a flirtatious wink and a passing comment, and Dean smothered his laughter at Balthazar’s brazenness. He may not be in line for Lord Protector, at least insofar as Lilith’s behaviors indicated, but he was certainly the most charismatic of Ardus’ slayers. Despite the fact that he knew it to arise from the horrors Balthazar had seen, his generally drunken misplaced humor was calming to the men, and Dean believed it had a worthy place in the squad, as small a comfort as could be offered.

The walk home (for it was a walk, and not a jog today, much to Dean’s self-disdain) was uneventful, and, as Dean had hoped, Sam arrived home just as Dean had finished cleaning himself and had set out his meal. The afternoon and evening passed quickly and pleasantly enough. Ruby had had her first visit from a midwife, who was accustomed to the secrecy of court, and had been paid to keep silent on the matter until the announcement. Everything appeared to be going well, and Sam was already convinced he would have a daughter. Dean joked that Ruby would have two girls to look after if that were the case, and Sam threw part of his meal at him. Mostly, they avoided the subject of the Road. Sam seemed satisfied enough though, with Dean’s accounts of the mortifications of being so beloved by the palace’s ladies, and after they had finished drinking and eating, and he had to depart for the evening to return to his wife’s chambers, he gave Dean a fierce hug and buried his face into his brother’s shoulder. At his height, it was almost comical and he had to stoop somewhat. Dean was careful not to laugh at his brother’s predicament, but instead nodded and made a few gruff noises amounting to something along the lines of “Yeah, Sammy, I missed you too.” Sam departed quickly after that, and Dean was left to the cottage alone.

He passed the time at stretching his tired muscles and massaging areas where knots were accruing. Later, when he fell into bed, he thought of the Road and his inevitable return. How perhaps he might position the men differently, and equip them, in light of what he had learned from Cas, and how best to communicate those lessons without invoking Cas’ authority to the men as a means of justifying his change of mind in terms of the squad’s management. And then later again, he thought of just Cas, and hoped that he was safe in his cottage, well-stored for the season, and not too lonely. Dean didn’t know why, but when he fell asleep, that last thought remained, like lead in his gut.

…

The meeting of the Slayers and the Lord Protector occurred a few days later. It was the second of such meetings for the year, the first having taken place over the winter months, when trading routes and times were allocated for the year. Of course, with Dean returned, all that planning had to be revised, and so the group was once again required to reassemble and volunteer for excursions. The task was somewhat nominal in that injuries and unexpected events usually required the Slayers to be at the call of the Lord Protector at almost any time, and might leave for the Road with a few hours’ notice. Nonetheless, it was tradition, and a perfect time for Dean to broach the subject of changing the groups’ practices on the Road.

Although he had been wary, at the mention of the meeting, Ruby had remained stoic, and Dean took that as an assent that he be allowed to continue with his usual trading time on the Road. Even though she didn’t acknowledge it, he’d tried to give her a friendly smile at that, as a show of camaraderie. It might not have hit the mark he was hoping, but when Sam had left the room to relieve himself, she had talked with him politely enough of the weather that Dean assumed he was performing well so far.

The meeting occurred in the Lord Protector’s chamber in the palace, a room more ornamental than necessary for the gruff men that tended to occupy it. Its main advantage was the massive ochre table that was set at its centre, with a huge map of Ardus and its various sister trading cities, as well as the smaller settlements set outside the cities that were responsible for farming and provided the cities with their exportable goods.

Dean was the second to last to arrive, Balthazar surprisingly up bright and early alongside Garth, and Samuel Campbell glowering at the head of the table. Alastair was only moments behind, and he gave Dean one of his strange grins as he entered, clicking his teeth together twice, before he took the seat next to him at the table.

Upon his arrival Samuel Campbell cleared his throat and stood, and the other Slayers joined suit, bowing to him as he did so. They then waited until he was properly seated before they sat themselves down again and they fell into silence, awaiting their instructions. It was a very small and informal ceremony compared to the standards required at Court for greeting the Lord Protector, but the Slayers had come to learn that Samuel preferred things that way – in this room, his true home, he was the man that had spent twenty years on the Road and witnessed things too horrible for his family to imagine, and because of that he had no time for ceremony. Matters were too serious.

“To start with, welcome home Dean Winchester.”

Samuel Campbell gave a nod in Dean’s direction, as his gruff rumble broached the silence of the room. Balthazar and Alastair gave slight nods and murmurs of appreciation, and Garth grinned wide and started a round of applause, which he quickly stifled with a glare from Samuel.

When Garth hung his head and looked down towards the table, Samuel sniffed once, and commenced speaking, in an authorative low vibrato:

“It is late in the season to be making such rearrangements, and we ought to Endeavour to keep the first routes as unchanged as possible. Given Dean’s predicament over Winter, I am prepared to let him rest for the duration of the Spring trading. We can revise the summer schedule and onwards to accommodate him.”

“That’s not necessary, sir. I am ready to take the Road whenever you call.” Dean kept his voice soft and acquiescent, but even as he interrupted.

Samuel raised his eyebrow but didn’t look to Dean as he spoke. “The groups are already accounted for and to disrupt one venture would disrupt them all. You can commence in summer.”

Dean swallowed and made a small noise in his throat. Spring was three months. _Cas_. Cas would be waiting for him. He’d promised one month. No matter how superhuman his senses, Dean doubted Castiel would know if he were on the Road, but for watching the city gates. The thought of Cas waiting patiently in the dangerous forest, when he could have been in the safety of his cabin, made him nervous. And the thought of Cas thinking Dean had abandoned him, worse still.

“With all due respect, sir. I’d prefer to return as soon as possible, and recommence my usual routine.”

Samuel growled and met Dean’s eyes square. “Slayer…”

Dean interjected quickly, to avoid reprimand: “I could replace of the allocated routes, and give someone some time off. Garth is getting married at the end of spring, sir. If I took his routes, he’d have time to get things arranged.”

He shot a sidelong glance at Garth, hoping that this suggested change of plans didn’t offend him in any way. It might reflect badly on Garth, if Samuel thought he had been trying to wriggle out of captaining a group so early into his status. Garth, however, beamed back at Dean and looked elated at the thought of being in the citadel to plan his own wedding. Dean smothered at the smile of the mental image of Garth, giggling with Jo, as they selected flowers and garments for the occasion. He was such a woman – he would adore those things.

Samuel considered Dean’s statement for some time afterwards, before turning to address Garth.

“Does that suit you, Slayer?”

“Yes indeed, sir. If Dean is willing.”

Sameul turned to Dean, shoulders squared and eyes unblinking: “Dean?”

“I am, sir.”

“It is settled then. You will leave in the fortnight. Onto other matters then. I consider the best mechanism is for Dean and Alastair to take the southward trading routes for summer and autumn to Rehin and the others. Balthazar and Garth will be relieved of sharing those routes, and may focus purely on the north routes for the duration of the year.”

It was a new strategy, to divide the routes so. Usually the Slayers simply cycled through the three of them for each scheduled trip. Where one was still on the Road, and unable to take a group, a captain would be selected from the unmarked men. It was something of a relief, to have a new Slayer in the group. Trading would be more efficient, and Dean might have more time to rest his men between trips in cities, with no urgency to return to the Citadel in time for the next scheduled trip. South was good too. That meant passing by Cas’ cottage, and having the opportunity to see him. All in all, a good outcome then, and Dean was pleased.

“Does that suit you gentlemen?”

“Very well. Dean will ride out three times during the spring to replaces Garth’s trips, and normal schedules will recommence after that in accordance with the new routes. I will have my scribe write up a formal calendar, and I will liaise with the traders regarding our capacity.”

The other Slayers nodded curtly. It was good news for all of them – a quieter spring, and a summer more conveniently scheduled would mean more time with family and training the men.

“Good. Now, the scouts will be sent out this month to check the Roads. Do I have a volunteer to lead them?”

Alastair raised his hand before Dean and he gave a small strange smile of victory. Samuel nodded curtly and let the matter drop.

“We will reconvene for their reports next week. Provided there are no major problems, I anticipate commencing trading immediately after that. Dean, do you think there is any cause for concern on the southern routes?”

“Nothing over winter, sir.”

“Good.”

Samuel drummed at the table with his knuckles. “In that case, I am content to leave arrangements to you regarding your party’s mechanisms. It would be best to discuss provision of anything extra with the armoury directly.”

“Regarding that, sir?”

Dean cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, determined to properly meet Samuel Campbell’s eyes.

“Yes?”

“I have some ideas…”

…

** 2013 **

Castiel ceased speaking around mid-afternoon, to allow the group to take a break and feed themselves. Dean left the room with Bobby to make for the kitchen, but today he was a little more lethargic and less careful to absent himself immediately from Castiel’s presence. Castiel could hear his faint murmur in the kitchen as he spoke with Bobby, but he let them to their privacy. Dean would never know, of course, but Castiel himself felt better in providing him with his space. It was the kind of service he would have provided to the Dean of his recollections without question, and, believing that that Dean was within Greg somewhere, it was a service he ought to be afforded too.

Jessica and Sam stayed behind. They had commenced awkwardly avoiding eye contact sometime that morning, and at the loss of two other bodies from the room, the bizarreness of their behavior was only worse accentuated. Castiel was careful to suppress his smile at their nervousness, knowing from his conversation with Jessica that any acknowledgment of the clear tension would not be welcomed.

After half a minute of uncomfortable silence, Sam managed to broach the topic of Castiel’s speech for the afternoon, and enquired as to the works required of the scribes in Ardus. Castiel described the library of Ardus for him with as much detail as he could (however, it was sparse, given he knew the description from Dean, who had scarce had time to visit it). Nonetheless, Sam seemed enraptured by the poor descriptions of its majesty, and was deeply intrigued by the literacy of “Dean’s brother, Sam” in that century.

“It must have been uncommon for a man raised outside the palace to have had that capacity.”

“It was, as I understand it. Dean was exceptionally proud of him.”

“Dean read your manifesto too, though?” Jessica shot in, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Castiel, even when Sam turned his gaze to watch her.

“He did. I believe Sam taught him, when they were younger. Sam was lucky enough to be selected as an apprentice for Ardus’ library when young boys were scarce for the purpose. He and Dean would stay awake late in the evenings, after Sam’s lessons, and he would relay what he had learned to Dean. When they grew older and Dean’s solider’s trainings became more intensive, I understand they ceased the practice. But Dean worked to keep the skill in secret.”

“That’s very impressive.” Castiel beamed at Sam when he said that, who crinkled his brow a little at the expression. Castiel quickly looked away and back to the floor before him.

“Yes. He used to move his lips when he read, and follow the words with his finger when he read. He’d try to hide it, of course. I think he was embarrassed.”

“Could he write too?”

“A little. Sam wrote well, of course. I think Dean was less motivated by it. He knew his letters, but I think he found the whole process tedious. He never acquired any particular fluidity. He was good with mathematics though. He would write whenever he had to make a calculation. It was a very impressive skill, at the time.”

Jessica grinned at Castiel shyly and rubbed at her arm absently. “That’s sweet, Cas.”

“What is?”

She breathed out a laugh and beside him, Castiel heard Sam mimic the action.

“Nothing.”

 


	11. But, Sleeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friendships! As promised, here is the first of four chapters to be uploaded on a slightly more hurried schedule than usual - a special treat for all your wonderful support, in kudos and reviews. It means the world to me. I adore you all.

** CHAPTER TEN **

** 1424 **

Being alone again was difficult for Castiel. The cottage was quiet without Dean. Even when he wasn’t speaking, he had been noisy. He’d hummed or sung to himself as he performed tasks around the house, or clicked out rhythms with his tongue and his cheek (he’d taught Castiel how to make this noise in order to signal Impala that he wished her to walk, and Castiel’s first failed attempts had earned him an afternoon’s taunting).

He scuffed his feet when he walked too – so Castiel had always been aware of where he was in the cottage at any given time. When he was in the stable with Impala, he had murmured to her as be groomed and fed her (usually platitudes about her excellent looks).

But silence pervaded the space when Dean was gone. Any small burst of sound Castiel made (like the scrape of his chair as he stood up from the table after a meal) was almost a shock to him – a sharp interruption in a barrenness that made it feel unwelcome.

He had thought that the promise of seeing Dean again would be enough to tide over this period of loneliness. At first, when he thought of a question, or a thought to share with Dean, he filed it away in the recesses of his mind and promised himself he would bring it up at their next meeting.

But that soon became affected by doubt. Castiel couldn’t shake the thought that their friendship and camaraderie had been the result of a forced proximity, and Dean’s guilt at his circumstance. When the winter barred Dean from travelling home, he had been content with Castiel. But in the city, with his women, the Princess and most importantly, Sam, Castiel would sure pale in comparison.

But otherwise, what could Castiel offer that would draw him back? The life he lived was unchangeable and numbing. Would Dean really care to know about the new crops he would plant when the weather warmed, or his fixing of the cottage? While Castiel inhabited a human form, he could not offer Dean humanity the way others could. When Dean had cried for Sam in the night in the midst of a dream’s strangehold, Castiel had not known how to comfort him. Nor had he known how to deliberately bring laughter to Dean’s face and make his eyes shine.

Castiel tried to chide himself when these thoughts arose. What did it matter if he’d done it deliberately or no? He’d brought pleasure to Dean with his company. He knew that. After all this time, and a shaky start, Dean had come to trust him. He’d slept in his presence with no fear that Castiel might suddenly turn. He’d let Castiel tend his wounds and provide him with food. He’d even let Castiel ride Impala, his most treasured creature beside his brother, and tend to her as though she were his own.

And when Castiel thought of their final night together, he remembered the way that Dean had curled into the shape of his wing, as another Angel would do. As though he understood what the gesture had meant and he was reciprocating it. Regardless, it could only be taken as a sign of familiarity, for Dean had otherwise been so careful before friendship was established.

Still, the feeling left Castiel agitated for the month of Dean’s absence, and at times, despairing. At first, Castiel was able to temper the sensation with business. He replanted his crops and scouted the forest for the sights of new growths. He tidied the barn (which Dean had left in rather a state) and cleaned the cottage thoroughly. In the warmth, he needed less clothing, and he spent an afternoon wandering about unclothed, after he had washed his furs and petty wardrobe in the river, beating out the dirt and sweat with a rock. Inevitably though, he could not busy himself for the appropriate length of time. For the final few afternoons he had little to do but sit in quiet contemplation. The situation did little to decrease his energy levels though, and he found his stomach churning with anticipation even when he cleared his mind of all thoughts and focused purely on _being_ in the small confines of his cottage. Inevitably, a memory of a conversation of the phantom sound of Dean’s voice would extract Castiel from his meditation, and the strange feeling of adrenaline only increased.

Eventually, Castiel conceded, and set off earlier for Ardus than he had intended. Dean had assured him he would be away longer than Castiel was allowing for, and he might not even make it on the Road until later in the year, if any distraction arose. Nonetheless, Castiel packed provisions, and took flight. He assembled a campsite a few miles from Ardus, and instituted the task of building himself a camouflaged and secure abode within which to wait for Dean’s arrival. It was enough to amuse him for several days, and the end product benefited from his fitful efforts to contain his nervousness – it was secure, well-hidden, and large enough that he could comfortably survive in it for weeks. Without his stores, Castiel had the impetus to hunt too, although this close to the Citadel, where Angelus were less frequent, the animal life was bolder, and Castiel found he sated himself easily most days. When those tasks grew thin, he became restless and irritated, and perhaps a little too bold. He took up flying towards the city every morning and positioning himself in a massive pine, almost at the peak, where he had a perfect view of Ardus’ gates and its silhouette. At times, he could make out tiny dots moving across the ramparts, and he witnessed daily another dot make a full circuit of the city. When he strained himself, he could just make out a the sound of a hum of activity in the daylight hours, and the bustle of the city centre when the daily markets commenced.

It was strange, being so close, but so far from company. Still, with a view of the City, and the thought that Dean would soon emerge from the Gates, time began to pass quicker – perhaps as an insult to the burn of anticipation that Castiel decided was altogether unpleasant. It was two days, maybe three, since Castiel took to the tree, that there was a sign of movement at the gates and the irritation was altogether forgot in the elation.

…

Dean was with the first party to leave the city, which Castiel had not expected. Initially, when the gates opened, he only watched and listened with mild attention, instead absorbed in calculating how long it would be until Dean would likely be required for a trip on the Road. In fact, he watched the group for around ten minutes, before he tuned in properly, and at once was assaulted with Dean’s familiar scent. It was a surprise, and for a moment, Castiel imagined it was a phantom scent, until moments later he heard the sound of Dean’s buoyant laughter across the Road.

Castiel felt his face twitch into an enthusiastic smile. It struck him as odd, that he would manifest such an expression without an audience, and he moved his hand to his mouth, as though to wipe it away. It was displaced easily enough, but it was replaced equally quickly with an increase in the tempo of his heartbeat, and a prickling in his veins. Castiel shook his limbs out quickly and repositioned himself in the tree’s branches, taking care to ensure he was well-concealed.

At his height, he was unlikely to be noted by the group, and Dean’s laughter suggested he felt secure, for the first hour of the trip at least. Still, even though the group would not yet be anticipating threat, Castiel folded himself back and waited, long after the sounds of the group had departed from earshot.

Soon after the group had departed, the familiar dot at the Citadel once again emerged and began his slow trek around the walls of the city. Castiel watched his path, as he always did, but he shifted and twitched in anticipation. When night fell, he took to the skies, and tracked the scent of the group. They were well-laden with baggage and he anticipated they would not travel fast. It only took him an hour or so to catch them, jumping carefully from tree to tree and then taking to travelling on foot when he approached within eyesight. The first night, as the group settled, Castiel positioned himself several hundred meters into the forest, and waited patiently in the branches of a tree, anticipating Dean’s call.

…

It wasn’t that simple. He followed the party travelling along the Road for four days without acknowledgment. Dean rode front as many hours as he could, in what appeared to be an attempt to rally the spirits of his men with confidence. Even at the distance at which he followed, Castiel could see the fear written across their bodies – in the tightness with which they gripped the reigns of their mounts, and the readiness for action with which they sat.

It likely did not help that was pursuing them. He kept well back, and used short spurts of flight to make up the distance with which the party had travelled when he believed they were far enough away that he would not be seen. But the men, hyper-aware with fear, several times turned their heads back as though they had heard the flutter of his wings, or caught their shape from the corner of their eye.

He had hoped for some acknowledgement from Dean that he was aware of his presence.  He didn’t know what he expected – Dean must surely be aware of his proximity, for he had asked him to come. But there was nothing to indicate that Dean was aware that at night, Castiel waited so close to their campsite, eyes watchful and waiting for the first sign of threat to Dean or his men.

When the party stopped at night, Dean largely stayed with the wagons, eyes careful and watchful over the expanse of forest that surrounded them. On occasion, he moved in a patrol (usually with another man) around the vicinity of the area in which the wagons were set up, during which time he remained stealthy and silent, with no hint that he wished to attract Castiel’s attention.

There were a number of changes since last Castiel had seen Dean’s travelling party. It wasn’t the new faces that made up the group, but it was their way of doing things. The party was dressed differently now. In night they donned long black robes and hid their weapons beneath them. Before sunset, they would set up camp, and men would be issued to ride deep into the forest, where they would slaughter whatever animal they could find, or else bring a chicken from the wagons, and leave it there for consumption.

Castiel watched the routine with fascination for a number of days, pleased to see that his lessons to Dean had made an impact. Even better, he was pleased that the group, as a result were left largely untroubled as a result of their new practices, and he was consequently left with little active protection to do. Still, he made a point of staying awake as much of the night as possible, and keeping an active watch on the Road. As many days as he could, barring exhaustion, he flew ahead of the road, and made sure that the path was clear. He wasn’t sure what he would do if it weren’t – it might be difficult to leave a message that Dean would understand without attracting untoward attention. He was lucky that it never came to that. He hoped, when they had the opportunity to speak, they could establish a more efficient warning system.

It seemed like the opportunity was not forthcoming though. Dean rode with single-minded focus, and rarely let his eyes scan the forest aimlessly. When he did, there was no hint that he was expecting sight of Castiel, nor any indication that he intended to speak with him. At night, he made sure to monitor the men as they went about their duties, and as he had when Castiel had first seen him, he patrolled the boundaries of their campsite long after his duty had expired. His seriousness was only diminished in the brief moments that he took with Impala, where he turned his back to the forest momentarily and buried his face into her mane, murmuring lightly.

It wasn’t until five nights into the trip, with only two more nights to Rehin when Castiel was rewarded for his waiting with a tentative murmur (though just loud enough for his ears to hear it): “Cas?”

Castiel has perched himself in a high tree for the night that had a full compass of visibility over the forest’s treetops. The men’s tactic of leaving a feeding post had been successful, and the Angelus had been summoned to and distracted one mile north. When dusk fell those that had congregated there chorused. Even though it was hard to make out amidst the screeches, they seemed contented enough with the offering, and the group made no move further towards the camp once their feast was done.

If there had been any thought that he might repay Dean for waiting so long to call for him, it was forgotten the moment Castiel heard his own name. Without grace or ceremony, Castiel wriggled out from the branches within which he had wedged himself and spread his wings to glide to the ground. But he was a little too enthusiastic about the movement in haste to answer Dean, and didn’t check his wings were properly disentangled from the tree before he leapt to the ground. A tug at the base edge of the right one alerted him to his improper behavior.

The wing wasn’t caught too badly, so Castiel was able to right himself in time to glide to the ground, rather than tumble. But it did require his extricating his wing rather forcefully from the “v” of bark from which part of the wing had become wedged , and a few protruding knots scraped rather painfully under the feathers and into the flesh of the wing as he ignored its restraints and attempted to move it as normal.

He crashed to the ground before Dean with a little less grace than he had intended, which earned a surprised (and quickly muffled) laugh. “You’re happy to see me, then?”

Castiel huffed, and took the proferred hand as he made his way to his feet, gingerly, scowling at Dean’s amusement: “Yes, I am.”

Dean’s eyes crinkled at him and when he smiled it was open and full of relief – a stark contrast to the expression he’d been wearing for the days previously.

Keeping hold of Castiel’s hand, he pulled him forward into the same embrace that had marked their farewell those weeks ago. Dean clapped him on the back and Castiel repeated the gesture carefully, offering only a small tap in return. He felt Dean’s laugh against the side of his face: “We’ll work on that one, Cas.”

With a quick clearing of his throat, Dean loosened his grip on Castiel’s shoulders and pulled away, grinning at him widely: “I was worried about you, when I didn’t see you on the Road.”

“I was keeping out of sight of your men.” At the words, Dean’s suspended shoulders dropped a little lower, in relief, almost. It was odd. Castiel had promised he would see him – why he would have found occasion to break such a promise was difficult to imagine, barring catastrophe?

Dean exhaled his laugh, clearly careful to keep his voice low. “Should’ve known. You’re a sneaky bastard.”

Castiel felt a jolt of panic at the odd phrase – the term he understood to mean an insult in a kingdom obsessed with chastity: “ are you angry with me for not revealing myself sooner?”

Dean started at the abrupt change of Castiel’s tone, and hastily whispered, closing the distance between them.

“No no! You’re just good at hiding. Had me worried is all.” He batted Castiel lightly on the arm as he grinned again.

Castiel nodded and watched as Dean’s eyes raked over his face, and pressed his lips together.

“Listen. I don’t have long. I don’t want to leave the men.” Dean gave a quick apologetic smile to accompany the phrase, and inclined his head behind him to the campsite, which was carefully silent and might have gone entirely ignored by Castiel had he not been aware of its presence.

“I understand.” Neither mentioned the memory of their first meeting, which hung so heavily suspended from the treetops around them. But it was there, in the air – caution for Dean and worry for Castiel. And trepidation and regret on both sides, more severely unacknowledged still.

Dean quirked his upper lip a little in a kind of nervous twitch: “Tomorrow night, maybe. I’ll wait till they’re asleep. We can keep watch together.”

“Are you comfortable with leaving your escort alone then?”

Dean looked back towards his campsite, and cast his eyes carefully around the wood surrounding them. When he met Castiel’s eyes, however, his expression softened and the lines of worry eased a little on his face: “Knowing you’re here now. It makes me feel a little safer. Just… not tonight”

Castiel dropped his head under Dean’s gaze, and rubbed at his knuckles distractedly.

“I’ll do my best to keep watch.”

Dean clicked his tongue lightly, and Castiel heard him inhale an excited breath.

“Got so much to tell you. Tomorrow night, I promise.”

Castiel nodded, feeling a little deflated that this short exchange was to be their reunion, but determined that it not be soured by his surprising petulance.

“Awesome.” Dean slapped him on the arm once more. “I mean it, Cas. I’ve missed you. You’re looking good.”

Castiel looked up at that. He meant to smile at Dean to reassure him that he didn’t feel the disappointment he did. But oddly, when their eyes caught, a tint of flared across Dean’s cheeks and he looked away hurriedly. His eyes darted around the clearing as though he’d heard the sound of danger. Castiel checked quickly too, even though he was sure that he’d heard nothing.

“The men’ll be waiting for me. I’ve got to get back.”

He nodded at Castiel, but didn’t meet his eyes, before we was striding briskly across the clearing and back through the trees. Castiel left him a significant buffer before he followed, situating himself close enough to see the campsite, but in  a tree high enough that he could watch the skyline carefully. And there he waited, for the duration of the dark.

…

When Dean woke in the morning, to relieve one of his men of the dawn sentry, he cast his eye across the line of trees that followed the Road, and nodded his head briefly. Castiel supposed it was meant to be a morning greeting, and a re-assertion of the promise that they could talk properly that night. Even though he knew he was too well-concealed in the tree covering, Castiel gave a nod of acknowledgment in return.

He followed the trail of the Road for the early part of the day. Like the days previously, Dean failed to acknowledge his presence, but he was a little lighter atop Impala, and there was more energy in his leadership. The men seemed buoyed by it, and as they came within sight of the City and set up for the night, they were a little louder and more jovial. Dean shushed them as they prepared the camp for the night, although he did so with a smile. It seemed, Castiel assumed, that he was pleased that they were a little less fearful that they had been in the days prior.

When night fell, Castiel knew better than to expect Dean immediately. He was still occupied with a number of duties, and Dean would want to clear the area thoroughly before he could take the opportunity to devote his attention to Castiel, even momentarily. So Castiel set himself up in a small clearing a few hundred metres from the tree line. At first, he sat calmly, but when Dean failed to materialize, Castiel’s impatience got the better of him, regardless of his rationality. It was as if the anticipation was thrumming in his blood, and his limbs started to pulse with it. His fingers beat against the ground and his legs pumped and jiggled in time with one another. As the beat spread to his wings, he felt the irritation there more acutely, where the blood made the skin swell and he felt the outline of the scrapes and burns from his dislodging from the tree start to tingle and itch.

Once he became aware of the sensation, it was impossible to dislodge, despite his attempts at pacing and ignoring it. Eventually, he wrenched his wing towards himself, more vigorously than he should have and felt the muscle protest at the pull. But he ignored it in favor of rubbing his fingers underneath the feathers, in order to get at the itch. While he reached back as far as he could around the wing, his fingers only lightly brushed against the irritated skin, and the light sensation worsened the itch, which became an almost painful throb. The growing intensity of the feeling made him aware of a more persistent press underneath the wing, and a spidery, sharp kind of touch, which must have come from twig or bark lodged there in his careless exit from the tree the night before.

Castiel couldn’t help but suppress a little growl and the frustrating aspect of the sensation, and made to wrench his wing further, which only succeeded in tearing out a few feathers, and aggravating a protesting muscle further. That done, he couldn’t help but exhale in frustration, and push himself from the ground abruptly and whirl around so that his back was against the tree behind him.

He pressed the sensitive part of the wing against the bark and carefully lowered and raised himself, letting the rough texture soothe the irritated aspect. The relief was equivocal – on one hand the scrape of the bark provided a momentary relief from the scratch, but at the expense of that relief, the dry material easily disintegrated under the pressure, and he felt small parts dispersed beneath his feathers, which only succeeded to make them bristle and irritate. Castiel threw his head back against the trunk and growled in frustration and wiggled again.

 “What are you doing?”

Castiel halted, mid-rub, and raised his eyes to the sound of Dean’s voice. Across the clearing, leaning against a tree trunk, with arms crossed and a suppressed smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, Dean watched him.

Castiel swallowed, and felt his stomach drop at the amusement in Dean’s expression. “I-…” he paused as Dean’s eyebrows raised in incredulity and playful judgment. He grinned wide, with full teeth, and raised a hand waving off Castiel’s next attempt to explain himself.

“On second thought, leave it. I’ll give you some time alone.”

Castiel felt his wings curl in on themselves in an embarrassed gesture at the mockery in Dean’s voice.

“What do you mean?” Castiel kept his voice careful, well aware that there was nothing to be embarrassed of as far as he could see - although Dean making light of him made his heart pound nervously.

Dean’s head shifted a little to his right and he eyeballed Cas with his left eye and a slight tilt of the head. He raised his palms as he did so, as though expecting Castiel to volunteer something else. When Castiel did nothing except shrink on himself further, and extricate himself from the tree, he started to laugh in earnest, although he kept the sound carefully muffled by his forearm.

“Sorry Cas, it’s just…”

Dean doubled over on himself and wheezed, shoulders shaking up and down and arms clutching at his stomach.

“I was-“

“Don’t even… _haaaa_ …. Don’t even explain it, Cas. It’s much better without.” Dean held up one finger, and then pressed it against his lips, still giggling slightly.

Castiel jiggled his shoulders and crossed his arms across his chest, looking to the ground and feeling a burn across his face that was the growing glow of embarrassment. It had been a long time since he had been the object of humor, and he found that in absence of being regularly denigrated, he had little taste for it. Even worse, for whatever reason, it stung more from Dean.

“Cas? You alright?”

Castiel looked up to find Dean suddenly sobered, and eyes tracking his face carefully.

“Sorry, it was just a joke.”

Castiel sighed and unwrapped himself, feeling his wings twitch a little at the itching that still remained, and now burned more ferociously as he was forced to ignore it.

“I understand.” Castiel could hear the untruth in his tone, and evidently, Dean could too. Dean’s face dropped and his mouth hung loose. “I’m sorry, Cas. I just…Here.” He stepped forward and pulled Castiel into a quick hug, slapping him on the back lightly and resulting in a quick burst of blood flow back to where Castiel’s feathers itched. “Really missed ya. How you been keeping?”

“Well.”

Dean bit his lip and tracked his eyes down Castiel’s body, before rubbing absently at the side of his mouth. “Yeah? You been keeping safe?”

“Well enough. The forests have been quiet this winter.”

Dean nodded energetically and bit his lip. When silence fell momentarily, Castiel’s skin took the opportunity to remind him of its distaste with his circumstance, he slapped absently at his shoulder in a poor attempt to get at the itch. But it was a half-hearted effort, knowing he could not properly reach it. “And you? How is Sam?”

Dean breathed out a surprised little laugh. “Married, actually.”

Castiel felt his own eyebrows raise in surprise, and his wings twitch in irritation at his back for being ignored. He let one a small shudder and a stretch, as though pulling the skin would dispel the tingle.

“To Ruby?”

“Yeah,” Dean gave a half-hearted smile, “he’s… happy. So that’s….” His eyes followed the way Castiel’s wing jumped with irritation at another twitch of sensation across the skin. “Are you… having an issue with someting?”

Castiel’s fingers twitched at his side, and with his effort to stopper the action, they ended up shivering slightly.

Somehow, Dean’s eyes were drawn to the gesture, and he watched them with interest for a moment, before he looked up to Castiel, mouth open in an incomplete question.

“I do not wish to provoke your amusement.”

Dean raised his eyebrow, and shook his head lightly: “Oh… Cas. Don’t worry, I won’t laugh.”

“You did only moments ago.”

Dean breathed out an incredulous kind of laugh, before sobering at Castiel’s seriousness and looking down at the ground in apology.

“I’m sorry, I… just tell me what’s wrong.”

Castiel cleared his throat lightly, drawing Dean’s gaze back to his face. In his defence, Dean appear genuinely apologetic, and he had his lip underneath the point of his right incisor which he was pressing into the flesh nervously.

“There is… bark lodged in my wing. It is irritating.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched and his bottom lip fell away from its position poised underneath his tooth, but he kept his face carefully blank.

“Can’t you reach it?”

“No. You… came upon me when I was trying to dislodge it, but I seem to have worsened the effect.”

“Oh…Can… I help?” Dean’s voice rose at the end of the question, as though whether it was a question was also a question, in the sense that it might have been fruitless. Dean it seemed, did not appear to anticipate an answer, for he smacked his lips together making a strange pop as he pulled them apart.

Castiel attempted to look over his shoulder to see where the bark was lodged, but it was a fruitless exercise, and he turned back to Dean who almost lightning quick rearranged his face into a serious expression.

“Perhaps if you could investigate it? That might be helpful. I can’t… reach.” He made another fitful swipe at his wing and pulled it around him carelessly , but this time the pain of the pulled muscle struck him sharply, and a second later the wing began to cramp. He couldn’t help but let a wince cross his features, and at once Dean was beside him.

“You alright, Cas?”

“Just… I have irritated it,”

“Alright, uh, sit down. Let’s take a look.”

Castiel gave his wings a few shakes to attempt to banish the cramp, but it worsened and he felt his wing coil in upon itself almost involuntarily.

“ _ah._ ”

“It’s cramping?”

As Castiel settled, he felt Dean shuffle and seat himself behind him, and the somehow intuitive sense that Dean’s hands were hovering uncertainly above his feathers.

“Yes, ah, by the joint on the right.”

Castiel’s wing shuddered again and he groused and stretched his neck forward, trying to stretch out the muscle.

Dean prodded at the joint unhelpfully. “This one?”

“ _Ah_. Yes… there.”

“Oh, uh…” He felt the press of two fingers around the joint, pinching at it firmly. “Tell me when I’m on it?”

“Mmph. Lower.”

Dean pinched along the wing until Castiel nodded and complained in his throat. The muscle was tightening and pulling his wing back into an unnatural position that was starting to aggravate other muscles along it. Even though he knew it wasn’t true, it felt as though his wing were being pulled the other way, so that its tip would press at his shoulder blades, in an unnatural and damaging curve.

Dean’s fingers prodded experimentally a few times, so light there might have been disgust there. However, on the fourth attempt, they found purchase. “Oh, yeah, I can feel it there. Hang on.”

Castiel felt Dean remove his fingers for a moment, before returning two more to work his hand under the feathers that covered the wing, until they ghosted across the skin beneath it. When he had his grip firmly around the joint, he brought his thumb under too, and squeezed and pushed the wing closer to Castiel’s back, and with his other hand, started to gently rub at the side of the joint, where the muscle was pulsing most intensely.

“That bit there, right?”

“Yes.” Castiel growled in relief and he let his head drop so that his skull hung heavy, and he rubbed at his eyes in relief. The muscle still twitched, sending painful jolts up Castiel’s neck and into the back of his head, aching as though he had been struck as it was forced, painstakingly slow, to relax.

Dean huffed a little, but pushed his fingers in further, finding the tightest point and pressing his finger in there as hard as he could until the muscle gave a final twitch and then settled beneath the touch. Dean pressed a little further, to be sure, before he let his fingers withdraw and he patted Castiel lightly and, somewhat awkwardly on the back.

“Better?”

Castiel rolled his head on his neck, letting his cheeks and then his chin find contact with his collarbone. The movement didn’t abate the ache, but it demonstrated a returned flexibility which had been lost to the spasm.

“Yes. Much. Thank you.”

Dean chuckled – “no problem. Get a lot of these, riding so long on the Road. Used to it. Heh.”

Castiel jolted as Dean’s fingers grazed his feathers once again, with less concern this time, and more direct efficiency.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Dean’s hands withdrew at once, and his voice immediately rose in its register. “I was… looking for the bark. Get the problem at the source, you know?” He clicked his tongue and breathed out a little laugh behind Castiel, the heat of which Castiel felt on the back on his neck. It was a nervous laugh though, after which Dean held his breath in expectation of an answer.

“Is that… alright? I mean, can I?”

Castiel itched at the part of his neck where he had felt Dean’s breath and then let his hand raise to his hair, which he fiddled with absently.

“Yes. Fine.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how, but he could tell Dean was smiling a little behind him, and he felt rough fingers reach back underneath the feathers. The touch was light, and a little tentative, but officious and careful.  Arduously, Dean picked the bark from where it had tangled with the small hairs of the feathers, fingers rubbing lightly along their edges searching for a disruption to the smoothness.

“Sorry if it’s a bit rough, I just… can’t see in the dark.”

“No… it’s alright.”

Dean hummed in satisfaction and continued his movements, following a careful path to ensure he examined every part of the right wing.

It was a strange sensation. Dean was careful about it, and business-like, efficiently working through the rows of feathers and extracting the irritation. At times, his fingers ran over the light scrapes and Castiel kept his sounds of irritation to a minimum. Still, on more than one occasion, Dean murmured a soft sorry and continued increasingly more carefully.

Dean kept his fingers searching some time long after he discarded the last piece of bark, for the sake of thoroughness, Castiel presumed. Eventually, however, he conceded his success and withdrew. There was a small silence after he pulled away, until Dean spoke with his voice calm and even:.

“I should probably get back to the men.”

He cleared his throat quickly and Castiel could hear Dean behind him standing and brushing off his breeches. Castiel let his wings bristle and he followed suit,  and shuffled up carefully.

“Hey, so, we’ll be in Rehin tomorrow. I think I’ll be able to get out of the city for a few days. Do you think we can meet up then?”

“I will watch the gates.”

“Great.” Even in the darkness, Castiel could see Dean’s wide smile. “It’ll be good to talk to you properly. Not be so worried about… you know.”

Castiel nodded and smiled back, and he felt a swell in his chest.

“Good. And… sorry, if I kind of… I don’t know.”

“Pardon?”

Castiel felt Dean hold his breath for a moment: “…don’t worry”.

Castiel huffed and stepped closer to Dean, reaching out and lightly touching his arm: “Dean?”

“I just… well, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to…I’ll see you tomorrow”

 The words trailed off until Dean was barely murmuring, before he spoke almost jovially to smother the end of the question.  Castiel nodded curtly, without bothering to answer the query that had provoked Dean’s nervousness. If Dean had changed his mind, then he was content to ignore the misstep.

“See you tomorrow then, Dean.”

Dean paused for a moment, before raising his arm and clapping Castiel on the shoulder, as though he had adjudged the moment incomplete. “Keep an eye out.”

“I will.”

“Yeah, I trust you.” Castiel remained silent at that, unsure of how Dean wished for the conversation to proceed when it had clearly been concluded. Dean seemed at a loss too, and for a moment he stared at Castiel quizzically. Then, without any warning, Dean smiled at him once, and turned, striding back across the clearing carefully but confidently, thrumming his fingers against his thigh.

…

Castiel was awake until dawn, contemplating Dean’s nervousness surrounding the question he had been unable to complete. Dean was right to have queried whether the action was appropriate. To have anyone but his closest brothers and sisters touch his wings was… it was unnatural. At least, it should have been. The touch was somewhat intimate – akin perhaps to holding hands (a gesture he had seen demonstrated by some mated humans). It wasn’t that the touch had to be sensual, although Castiel knew among mated pairs that was the case. It was simply that, it required trust, like any other close kind of contact between any other beings. And a touch improperly given was offensive, and invasive.

To have Dean so close, it should have been jarring. Castiel ought to have at least considered Dean’s question, when he asked if Dean could touch him. There ought to have been a nervousness, or a slight wariness to his answer. Yet it had been so simple, and so natural to let Dean comb his fingers through his wings. It was comfortable, and unconcerned, and almost practiced in its calmness.

What could Castiel make of that? He and Dean had spent much time together, and they had shared much. But Castiel was well aware that they had both held back. Dean had kept parts of his time, his family history, and his relationship with Sam to himself. And Castiel had avoided sharing his memories of Heaven, and many of his lost brothers and sisters. He and Dean were friends, certainly, and they were indebted to one another. But, to be so comfortable to the touch, and to not feel violated, or strange, after only a few months together, and to have so performed an action normally reserved for those who were closer – it was unexpected, and stirring.

Dean’s nervousness seemed to stem from his concern that Castiel might have been disturbed by it – he had been willing enough to touch Castiel otherwise, with methodical determination to allieve the discomfort. It was almost medical. He had treated Castiel with the cool efficiency that Castiel had so treated him with when Dean had been injured, and had returned to the camp entirely unfazed, except for his concern perhaps that Castiel was not.

Castiel could only assume that meant he did not understand the implication. Certainly, Dean had wanted to clarify Castiel’s concern about the action, but that seemed to be an afterthought. Perhaps that was the way Dean was, now that he was properly recovered from understanding Castiel’s true form – it was an unexpected turn from how he had been with Castiel previously, but not unwelcome. Dean was a soldier – he was used to being around other men and their bodies, and having their strong mental bond forged by the Road sometimes transition into small movements of physical closeness. Perhaps his comfort now with Castiel was his way of showing that he was now comfortable with him, as he was his men, and Castiel had equaled their estimation in his eyes.

It was a pleasant and not unwelcome thought, if not for the warmth that stayed at that point in Castiel’s wings and thrummed beneath the feathers for hours after Dean’s departure. Even when it faded, some point before dawn, upon sight of Dean atop Impala, leading the men to Rehin that morning, it slowly reignited and tingled there. Though, unlike before, Castiel had no urge to dismiss it. He merely enjoyed the sensation, supposing it were a physical mark of friendship, and was grateful for the opportunity to have experienced it, at least once.

…

If the men had noticed Dean’s absence during the night, they had clearly put it down to his meticulous security practices, for none seemed at all perturbed that he had been away from camp for around an hour. Perhaps it was the promise of a safe harbor in Rehin within the day that distracted him from his absence – any chance of a delay was psychological torment when the safety of that City’s high walls beckoned.

They made it to the City in the late afternoon but were delayed for around ten minutes at the Gate due to there being insufficient manpower in attendance to haul the massive wooden doors open – they had not expected the group for another few hours. As a result, Dean was delayed for several hours after he had settled his men and directed them to their accommodations, in angrily scolding the City’s Chief Watchman. While he was careful to make plain that such errors could not be tolerated, he did stop short of demanding a more careful watch of the city’s perimeter in general. Having travelled to Rehin many times before, Dean knew, like many of the larger cities, there were a few cracks in the walls through which local urchins left the city to forage for additional supplies to supplement those that they could not afford from the wagons.  Those cracks were sometimes used too for daring (a better word, stupid) young boys who liked to roam the outer boundaries of the forest in a show of their bravery. Those exists would be useful to Dean, in keeping his promise to Cas, and they were no major threat to the city’s security.

It wasn’t until after darkness had fallen then, that Dean was able to return to his men and leave them with the necessary instructions.  Rehin was the centre for several small seaside towns, less secure but generally less interesting to the Angelus, being so close to the coast. Its trade was in its seafood and related products, and these would be transported back in the wagons to Ardus, for the pleasure of the Empress and those lucky enough to afford such luxury. In return, the fishing town would receive a number of Ardus’ specialties – fabrics, glass, armour and, most importantly, as it was the centre of knowledge in the kingdom, the lastest in medical treatments, oils and balms. The trade was something of an uneven one, since Ardus had a few farms of its own, and was more than capable of providing for itself without resorting to trading with other cities. But the other cities depended on Ardus for its products, and the continued trading kept goodwill towards the Empress intact.

Generally, Rehin had its own practices for transporting the fish from the coast to the centre. The ride was only a short one – perhaps an hour at most with a heavy wagon, and so transportation was usually a task carried out by the fishermen themselves. Fatalities or attacks in general this close to the coast were rare, since the Angelus preferred the dark dinginess of the forests and mountains. It would only be in times of desperation that the path would be threatened, and Rehin would be cut off from its supplies for a few days.

Still, it was customary for the Guard, when they were visiting the city, to escort the fishermen and their hauls. Usually only one soldier, or perhaps two, depending on experience, would be required for such a task. Similarly, they were also allotted shifts to help supervise the repainting of the city’s walls, as Bobby did in Ardus. The task was similarly nominal, and there was no great history of assaults occurring there. Still, it was tradition, which Dean was happy to keep. This small city, which had never known the proper fear of the Road, was in need of reassurance. And that was Ardus’ job to provide. The group would take it in rotations, with preference being given to the younger soldiers – who were in need of more experience on the Road. Dean had prepared a schedule for rotation prior to departing for the road, which he read to his soldiers before they commenced their recreation in Rehin – most were illiterate and required the schedule to be read aloud.

As Captain, Dean was expected to carry out certain politicking in the city during times of rest. In practice, there was little to do though. The cities were happy to continue trading, and put up Ardus’ guard to the best of their lodgings. They offered celebrations every time the Guard arrived, and though they were nothing to those of the Empress’ hall, they were pleasant enough occasions and, most importantly to Dean, there had never been an absence of pretty young women, only to happy to offer their thanks to Ardus’ guard for keeping the city safe and secure.

As such, Dean’s only obligation during his time in the city was to greet Rehin’s leaders, brief them on the plans for the trading season, and offer Ardus’ compliments. The leader of Rehin was currently a woman, of noble descendance but long since separated from the court, by the name of Jody Mills. She was fairly abrupt, but kindly enough, and a good leader for the city. Like many other women before her, she was a widow of the Road, but she had put her desire to leave Ardus and the memory of her husband behind, and the knowledge that she had gleaned from him to good use in this place.

Unlike in Ardus, the meeting was informal and unarranged. Dean proceeded immediately to Jody’s home, in the centre of Rehin in the city’s largest hall (which was roughly the size of Ardus’ smallest church). A few inquiries directed him to the second floor, to Jody’s office, where she greeted him with weary eyes over the top of a singularly burning candle and a pile of parchments. Still, ever the competent leader, she stood and brushed off her skirts, bustling around the table to greet Dean with a short, tight somehow authoritative (and he would never know how she did it) hug.

“Well, boy, it sure is good to see you. We’d heard you were dead.”

Dean chuckled in her ear and squeezed back fondly, letting his fingers grip the rough cloth of her shirt.

“Nothing but vile rumors.”

She laughed lightly and withdrew, raising her eyebrows playfully.

“Hear your brother is married too.”

“Yep.” Dean grinned, and moved to seat himself down on the other side of Jody’s desk.

“ And a little one on the way?”

Dean froze mid-way through adjusting himself in the seat and stared at her as she ambled casually around the desk, entirely unstruck by the scandal of the question.

“Wha-?”

She watched him for a moment, before laughing brightly, a light peal in the dim room, and seating herself behind her own desk again. “A guess. But you’ve given me my answer anyway.”

Dean’s head twitched to the side, and he glared at Jody but she just winked and pulled a pile of parchment in front of her. “Stop your grumbling, boy. It’s safe with me, at least, until the rest of Rehin knows. Now-“

She sifted through the parchment, licking the tip of her finger, and to grasp at the corners of the pages, and using her free hand to brush her short , cropped locks behind her ear. It was unheard of, that woman should appear to be like a man, but Jody’s efficiency in running Rehin had dismissed most of the impolite whispers. She was a popular leader, and it was clear in the small luxuries afforded to her in such a small place, that they were immensely proud of her too.

“The load for you to take back will likely be a little smaller than this time last year. We’ve had some trouble with storms in the last few weeks. Some of the kill had to be used to feed the City.” She looked over the parchment apologetically,  “I’m afraid we’ll have to accept less product as a result.”

“Let me see that?” Dean held a hand outstretched and let Jody deposit it in his hand. He held it in front of him for a moment, feigning seriousness (although he did quickly note the amount of product marked as forfeit, for an explanation for Samuel Campbell back in Ardus). When he looked back at Jody, she looked a little deflated and she was leaning backwards in her chair, a few fingertips pressed against her mouth nervously.

With a shrug, Dean tore the parchment up, tossing its pieces over his shoulder with a grin.

 “Won’t hear of that, Jody.”

She followed the path of the pieces to the ground, before turning to Dean and shaking her head.

“It’s only half what-“

“The product’s yours, regardless.”

A pregnant silence hung in the air, before she conceded and let her hands drop to the table, smiling at him fondly, in the expression Dean rather imagined she would have used for her own children, had she had any.

“You’re a good boy, Dean.”

Dean just grunted petulantly in response to being called a “boy” and crossed his arms. At once, the affection dropped from Jody’s face and she stared at his posture pointedly until he corrected it.  She smirked a little as he did so, and moved to shuffle her parchment before her again officiously

“Thank you, Dean. I mean it. From all of the city”

Dean only nodded lightly in acknowledgment, not interested in turning a small favor to a good leader (in his mind, at least) into a performance. Jody seemed like-minded, pausing only momentarily before following up with: “I do wish you hadn’t torn up that parchment though. It was actually rather important.”

“Oh!” Dean was at once guilty on his hands and knees, gathering the pieces, which he deposited with an embarrassed smile upon her desk.

She just rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair, eyes bright. As Dean sat back down, blushing slightly, she shook her head lightly in incredulity and amusement. They both gave a small laugh at the silent reprimand – _what am I going to do with you?_ – before Jody spoke again: “So any news from the capital that I should know about?”

“There’s a new Slayer in the City, so we’re splitting up the routes now. I’ll take this one for the year, and Iren too.”

“Who is he?”

“Do you remember Garth from last summer?”

Her eyes widened in an expression of utterly incredulous shock: “lanky kid? Likes to play at that puppet game with his hand?”

Dean chuckled. He knew the puppet game she meant, where Garth put on a high-pitched voice and claimed that his hand was in fact, Ser Fizzilus – the greatest Slayer in all the land, for children that waited seeing their heroes at the gates to the City when they left for the Road: “That’s the one. He’s leading his own squadron now.”

Jody laughed darkly back: “I must be getting old. Things are changing and I can barely keep up these days. Kids leading groups on the Road...”

Dean shrugged, ignoring the bitterness in her tone.

“He’s doin’ a good job, Jody. Don’t worry about him.”

“Hm,” she pulled her arms tighter around her chest, “I worry about you all. Kids, the lot of you. Selling your youth before you’ve even lived it.”

Dean cleared his throat gruffly and reaching forward to pick up  pile of her parchments, holding them between his palms and batting them on the table so that they fell into a neat pile, before pretending to read the first. There was no answer to Jody’s statement that he could think of, knowing in his gut that it was true and the words of every mother in Ardus whose boy was sent to the Gates. He waited until she had breathed out carefully a few times, dispelling whatever memories that had returned temporarily to trouble her.

“Well,” she leaned forward again, slapping her hands on the desk, “if we’re going to be seeing a lot of you, there’s no need to plan out the whole summer in advance. Here-“

She reached into a compartment beneath her desk and extracted a freshly inked piece of parchment rolling it up quickly, and sealing it in its position with a knot of twine and a light scribble with her quill that marked it as delivered by her own hand: “that’s the order for the next trip, and you can discuss with the boys down in the yards about when the stock’ll be ready for dispatch. In the mean time, get some rest and take care of your boys. The alehouse is expecting them there tonight. I hope you’ve given them the night off.”

“There’d be a mutiny on my hands if I didn’t,” laughed Dean, and he took the proffered scroll and pocketed it in his coat. A moment passed between them as Jody looked at him and her gaze softened. Dean cleared his throat again, and gave a small salute with his index and middle fingers against his forehead. “I’ll be seeing you, Jody.”

“Night, Dean.”

She turned busily back to her papers almost as soon as Dean left his chair, but as he closed the door, she called out loudly and cheekily behind him, the weariness of her words a second ago entirely dispelled. A scribe waited outside Jody’s office for his turn, and her jibe was audible to him too: “Don’t sleep with too many of our ladies this time, Winchester. I understand there’s a plan to trap you into marriage with an illegitimate child that’s become rather a popular strategy down in the houses.”

The scribe blushed and dropped his gaze from Dean’s, who merely stuttered and bit the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well… uh…oh, don’t worry.”

Her peal of laughter was still audible as he descended the stairs back into the main hall.

…

The men were well-trained, and they were still awaiting Dean’s dismissal when he returned back to their lodgings, and let them know they were welcome to attend the Alehouse. When they asked if he would join them, he waggled his eyebrows knowingly, and murmured: “prior engagement.” They farewelled him with catcalls and whistles, and stumbled out into the streets, singing and leaning on each other as though they were already drunk from the night’s activities.

Dean was careful to only take what he needed to Cas. The group wouldn’t be perturbed if he failed to appear for a few days – they’d just assume he was being thoroughly entertained by one, or many palace girls – and, being so diligent and afraid of his reprimand, they would carry out their duties as required and revel in their lack of supervision in the evenings. Still, were he to take too many of his weapons, or too heavy a travelling cloak, a little more suspicion might be raised, and as such he was careful to leave his largest and most conspicuous articles behind, settling instead for a light cloak, and two daggers, which were settled at his ankles.

Normally, he would consider it foolhardy to enter the forest with so little, but he was sure Cas would have planned ahead regarding weapons and warmth, and the area around Rehin was comparatively safe compared to the open expanse of Road. Still, on second thought, he decided to take another knife, and strapped it across his back and underneath his cloak.

Dean had to wait out several partially drunk teenagers at the sewers of Rehin for an hour before he was able to escape the City. There were likely other exits, but they were small, and formed by pre-pubsencent kids, who were a lot more limber and lithe than Dean was with his solider’s bulk. As far as he knew, the sewer was the largest exit (although fairly unpleasant to use) and there was no risk of him getting stuck in a narrow passageway on his way out of the city. It was past midnight by the time Dean had the opportunity to slip through, and down the grate.

The journey was quick an uneventful, although he kept an eager ear out for daredevils along the passage. By his count, they had all entered and re-emerged from the sewer, and it should have been abandoned for the night. Still, he could not be too careful in ensuring that his leaving the city went unnoticed.

He managed to hug the wall for the large part of the trip, but at the end, the rocks became too narrow for his wide feet, and he was forced to drop his boots into the waste and slosh through a few meters to get to the exit. Mercifully, the sewer ran close to a river, and he was able to quickly clean himself there, hoping that Cas’ super sense of smell would not be forced to endure the unpleasantness of what left the city via the sewers. He washed for a few minutes, even after he could no longer discern the scent, before running quickly and silently towards the forest, taking care to keep his head covered, just in case a soldier on the Wall had enough sense to keep watch at the south side.

He kept up his jog into the forest for fifteen minutes at least, before slowing and seating himself on a fallen log in a small clearing. The scent of the ocean, even as far away as it was from the forest, was tangy in the air and Dean let himself enjoy the small pleasure of breathing in more than necessary, swallowing the  salty taste of freedom and letting himself the feeling of exhilaration at being so close to the edge of the world.

He adjusted on the log, and leaned to stare out into the forest. After a quick survey, when he was sure he was safe, and also sure that Cas was not already here, that he let out one quick whisper: “Cas?”

He didn’t bother asking again, instead leaning back on the trunk and letting the silence of the forest wash over him, until, only a few minutes later, he heard the light pad of Castiel’s feet along to his right, and the light, but warm rumble of Castiel’s voice: “Hello Dean.”


	12. Resist!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dearest darlingest readers! Thank you for returning once again to this little work of mine. As promised, here is the second of four uploads to be hurried through a little – both to offer you some thanks for your taking the time to read and review this work, and also as a method of hurrying the author along (since I have, still with an eight or so chapter buffer, become entirely too lazy for my own good, and for all the aspirations I have for the upcoming year). As always, my massive thanks for your kind reviews. I must say, I teared up a little at reading those for the last chapter. You all astound me with your kindness and your generosity. 
> 
> As warning, this is the chapter in which the most critical of my tags will become relevant - please, bear in mind this chapter concerns what Castiel experienced in the tomb, and therefore issues of torture and non-consent. Please be wary.

** CHAPTER ELEVEN **

** 2013 **

The group fell asleep on the couch again that night. Except for Dean, of course. No matter that things had warmed between he and Castiel recently, it was obvious from every aspect of his posture that he would in no way be able to relax sufficiently in Castiel’s presence to engage in the activity.

He might have left but for the fact that Jessica’s head had fallen onto his shoulder after she started sleeping. His jaw was positioned slightly to the side, and he was gritting his teeth. Castiel had kept on speaking even after that fact. Sam had fallen asleep first and curled in on himself like a cat at the side of the couch. Jessica had laughed at that, and there had been a few whispered jokes at Sam’s expense, before she stared at Castiel meaningfully to continue the story. Within twenty minutes though, both she and Bobby had lost their respective battles with their heavy eyelids and had noiselessly left the conversation.

Castiel had kept his gaze on his hands for the entirety of his speech. He was aware when the patterns of Jessica’s and Bobby’s breathing changed, which marked the fact that his sole audience was now Dean across from him. However, he continued regardless, making a point of not looking up so he could not be given an excuse to stop.

Dean gave him none either, and his breathing remained even and careful for another hour, until Castiel reached the end, and met his eyes as he described the final part of the story thus far: “Hello Dean.”

He didn’t announce the end of his story but to stop speaking, and Dean gave no acknowledgment for some time that the sound had given way to silence. With Dean’s own immobility, Castiel was loathed to move and disturb the spell – it was perhaps the first time they had had the benefit of privacy together, properly, since the moment where Dean had lain Castiel against the warm stones of the castle, and even that had had a captive audience.

For a long time, Castiel was terrified to disturb the moment – with Greg the way he was, Castiel had no sense of how to best make use of the opportunity, without undermining the tiny steps of progress he had made so far.

Eventually though, he chose the innocuous. Carefully, he met Dean’s eyes, raising his head from his hands, and was surprised to find Dean was watching across the room, a statue as he sat supporting Jessica’s head uncomfortably.

Castiel let his eyes move to her face, smiling in her sleep, and smiled lightly. When he looked back to Dean, there was a hint of a tiny, hidden smile playing there too, but Dean was studiously hiding it, so that there was only a light twitch at the corner of his mouth to mark its appearance.

“You know, she is sufficiently deep into sleep that you would not disturb her if you moved.”

Dean’s face expressed that he was startled at the whisper in the darkness across the room, but he did not move, but for a slight adjustment to his free shoulder.

He might have waited a minute before he responded, and he barely managed to enunciate the first few words of his sentence: “How do you know?”

“An innate sense.”

Dean let his shoulder roll again and looked to meet Castiel’s eyes. He didn’t move to say anything else though, except to watch Castiel carefully.

“It is lucky that Sam fell asleep first.”

Dean suppressed a snort and looked down to his lap. There was a momentary flash of light amusement across his face, before he returned to meet Castiel’s gaze, as cool as he had ever been. Still, surprisingly, he chose to respond.

“He really likes her a lot.”

“Yes. I think so. And she, him.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and this time adjusted the shoulder that Jessica’s head rested on. Her nose twitched lightly, but otherwise she slept on, entirely comfortable.

“Did you ask her?”

“Yes.”

“Hah.”

The silence lasted a lot longer, before Dean smoke, this time through a murmur laced just faintly at the edges with a sleepy dullness: “Hopefully they get a move on soon. It’s insufferable.”

Castiel smiled lightly once, although Dean wasn’t looking at him. “I hope so too.”

…

At some point during the night, Dean had murmured lightly to Castiel that he ought to get up, or else incur the wrath of Sam when he woke up and saw his “wife-to-be’s” head resting on Dean’s shoulder. However, at some point, and he wasn’t even sure how, except out of sheer force of habit, Castiel had drifted to sleep for a few hours. And when he woke and saw that their circumstances were unchanged, he realized that Dean had too.

They were woken by the ring of Bobby’s mobile phone from his pocket, and he woke with a start, grumbling and urgent, patting himself down until he extracted the thing and pressed a button, standing up quickly and exiting the room. His early morning growl was still audible through the walls.

The trill of the notes however, had been enough to wake the rest of the group, and, most unfortunately, Sam had woken the first of the rest, and had caught sight of Dean and Jessica. Dean’s head had, even worse, tilted on top of hers over the course of the evening and they slept soundly for a few seconds – enough for Sam to fully capture the image and freeze beside Castiel. Jessica woke first, only moments later, to Sam and Castiel’s stares, and jerked immediately away from Dean, who was left to wake when his head dropped towards his shoulder. Oblivious, he groaned and reached for his neck, rubbing where he had evidently strained a muscle at the loss of support to its weight.

Jessica and Sam only stared at each other for a few seconds, before Sam stood tensely, and with a polite excuse, made his way to the doorway, and turned right towards his bedroom. His steps were a little heavy in the corridor, and they had the effect of making his gait sound thunderous as he stalked to the end, the door closing a little too loudly behind him.

Dean’s eyes closed partially, and his eyelids twitched, and his lips made a few small shapes before he looked directly and Castiel and then slammed his palm to his face. “Goddamnit.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. I fell asleep.”

Dean let his palm run down his face, squeezing his mouth between his fingers, but ignored Castiel

“Shit, Jess, I’m sorry.”

She pursed her lips and swallowed lightly. Her voice was very small, and embarrassed. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“It’s alright, you just fell asleep. I was going to push you off, but I didn’t want to wake you. Sam’s-“

“Please, don’t.” She pressed her fingernails to her lip and bites on them nervously. Then she raised her gaze to meet Castiel’s. There were a few tears there, he noted, but before he had a chance to offer any words of comfort, she stood up abruptly, and grabbed at her keys from the table beside her. “I’m going to go have a shower. I’ll be back in an hour or so. See ya.” Her smile was wide and fake and a little broken as she all but ran to the end of the room and wrenched the door open. The sounds of her desperate escape continued along the balcony until she shut her door, and they heard her move around there.

Dean looked to Castiel once more, but withdrew his gaze as soon as he realized Castiel was staring back, before he let his head drop back to his lap, where he blinked blearily. “Shit.”

They sat in silence until Bobby extracted himself from the kitchen, flipping his phone shut. “Where is everybody?”

Dean gestured at the various exits to the room silently, and with a look of stubborn non-complicity. Bobby grimaced and pocketed his phone. “That was the Castle staff wanting to know when we’re back on site. I told ‘em we’d all been knocked out with something nasty and that the cell we found  was filthy – that ought’a keep ‘em out in the meantime. But we need to get back in there asap, or they’re gonna start messin’ around there and destroy everything. We’ve lucked out they’ve been having trouble reopening the door, or they would have gone in already.”

“How soon do you need to be back?”

“Today. This mornin’, if possible. Lovebirds’ tiff or not.”

Dean stood, shrugging his leather jacket into a more comfortable position on his shoulders and rubbing at his still sleep-ridden eyes.

“I can meet you guys there in half an hour. Just gotta get some stuff from my place.”

Bobby turned to glare at Dean sharply: “You’ll do no such thing, boy.”

“What?”

Bobby rolled his eyes and adjusted his cap on his head, bustling into the kitchen as he spoke. “There’s no way I’m letting your clumsy ass back in there until we’ve had a chance to look around. And someone needs to stay here with Cas.”

Dean froze in the centre of the room, where he had been halfheartedly following Bobby. He cast a quick, purportedly surreptitious (but failing dismally) look to Castiel, and he began to blink furiously.

“You’re going to need me to look at the perimeter. There might be more there.”

There were a few sharp sounds as Bobby bustled around in the room, before he came back, pocketing something, and holding a piece of buttered bread. “You can come back with your magic wand later.”

“It’s an important part of the archaeological investi-“

“And we’ve got _the_ most important part of that place sitting here, in this motel room, and you want to leave him alone for the day?!” Bobby stormed from the threshold to the centre of  the living room and glared at Dean. “I’m already dealing with those two and their high school drama, I’m not starting with whether or not you want to take this one to prom.”

“Wha-? I-“

“You need to get over this aversion, and Cas needs someone to keep an eye on him. And some goddamn company. He was stuck in that hole for six hundred years.” Bobby turned quickly to check Castiel had not taken offence at his rush to defense. Castiel merely looked on - non-chalant. “You oughta learn to show him some respect.”

Dean was a fish out of water in the center of the room, his mouth opening and closing with failed retorts and complaints, and twitching nervously with frustration. Bobby was implacable though, and it was clear to the entire party that there was no way in which his will would be usurped in this matter.

“Go get those two and tell them they’ve got ten minutes. Everyone out by the van. You,” he gestured vaguely towards Dean, “in here, with Cas. We’ll see you both tonight.”

With that, he stormed from the room, aggressively biting into the bread in his hand. He made a show of slamming the door, eyeballing Dean as he did so and leaving him stranded silently in the middle of the room.

Dean turned to Castiel furiously, as though he would say something, but his mouth only dropped open in a failed attempt, and Castiel filled the ensuing empty moment with his own words: “I’ll tell Jessica.”

He pulled the blanket he had left for Sam during the night around his shoulders and followed Bobby’s path from the room, closing the door far more carefully, but Dean jolted at the noise all the same.

…

Jessica _was_ in the shower when Castiel knocked on the door, but she heard him and he heard her stumble a few minutes later through the room, peering through the glass window beside the door at him first before acquiescing and opening it.

“Cas-“

“Mike has sent me to inform you that you are required to attend the castle today. He said you must meet him by his truck in ten minutes.”

“Oh. Ok. Come in.”

The room was far almost identical to Sam’s, aside from the fact that Jessica’s scent was far more prominent within it. It was rather pleasant, like the smell of a moonbeam.

“Sorry, I just need to get dressed.” Jessica glanced at Castiel meaningfully, and he stared back for some seconds before he understood her meaning. “My apologies.”

He rotated where he stood in the centre of the room, until he was looking out the window to where he could see Bobby on the grey square below the motel, his body buried in the back of his wagon, jostling with equipment. Jessica shuffled behind him for a minute or so, before she laughed embarrassedly and said: “you can turn around now, Cas.”

She smiled lightly when she looked at him, and then unzipped a strange looking rucksack on her couch, and commenced throwing a few items in. She did so largely in silence, although her activities were ridden with noises of frustration – a little huff there, or a tut there, and she repeatedly pushed her loose hair behind her ears each time it fell into her line of vision, until she eventually let out a growl of frustration and sat beside her belongings on the couch.

“Jessica, may I be direct?”

“What?!” She snapped at Castiel, but clapped her hand over her mouth only a second later. “Oh my goodness, Cas, I’m so sorry. That was so-“

“Do not trouble yourself Jessica. I understand.”

“I really am-“

“It is not of import.”

He moved to the couch, and sat beside her, giving her a small smile and moving one of his wings so that it sat high on the seat, hovering over her back.

“I am sorry if I am too forward, but I believe you should speak to Keith about how you feel.”

Her eyes met his in a flash, and her whole face tightened with a last ditch attempt at secrecy. “I don’t know what you…”

“I think you care for him a great deal. And, forgive me, I believe he cares for you in the same way.”

“Cas, no, you’re-“

“His eyes are on you every moment he can snatch, and he listens to you over anyone else. He smiles when he looks at you, and frowns when you look away.”

“Cas-“

“Greg believes so too. And Mike.”

“What?”

Castiel met her eyes, and reached to touch her hand lightly. She took hold of his and gave it a squeeze, and he relished for the moment the tiny bit of contact, even if it weren’t from Dean.

“You do care for him don’t you?”

She looked away and pursed her lips, rubbing them together. When she answered her voice was very small, and her face bright: “Yes.”

Castiel smiled, and squeezed her hand. “I cannot speak from much experience. Only that… had I never told Dean what I felt, I am sure he would never have been mine. And he was worth every moment of terror and panic that it took to declare that to him. I would have declared it one thousand times, never knowing the answer, for him. Keith is a very kind man. And very handsome.” Jessica snorted a little at that and Castiel let his thumb run across the back of her hand. “And I am certain he will not withdraw from you. But even if there is a chance there is, is it not worth enduring it, for what you may gain?”

She held her breath, and her eyes scanned the wall in front of her, as though she could push herself through it and away from the decision Castiel was pressing her to make.

“If he were to deny you, he could only be a fool. And you are far too lovely a creature to be foisted with one of those in any case.”

She laughed lightly, and scrunched her mouth closed, as though so embarrassed at the compliment that she was determined to prove him wrong with forced ugliness. It hardly worked. In fact, Castiel was struck more by how lovable a creature she was – a pure and radiant example of his Father’s handiwork. When his Grace was more flexible, he looked forward to witnessing the soul which her body encased, for he was sure it would be wondrous – its quality already bled through every pore of her being and lit the space. It was no wonder Sam was so lost on her.

“I must return. Greg is to supervise me today.”

She raised her eyebrows, and pulled her chin back, as she swallowed back whatever cry threatened to erupt. Eventually, she managed a poorly restrained: “good luck”, and Castiel inclined his head lightly to show his understanding of the intimation.

“I will see you this evening.”

“Yeah, will we hear more then?”

Castiel couldn’t help but feel warmed by her continuing curiosity, even when her mind was so clearly occupied with a more pertinent matter.

“Of course.”

He had opened the door, when she uttered out more confidently, and with a definite resolve in her tone: “Thanks, Cas.”

He didn’t turn around, but quietly murmured a “you are welcome”, loud enough for her hearing, and left her to hurriedly reassemble her gear. As he crossed the balcony back to Sam’s room, he heard the end of what he could only presume was an unwelcome lecture from Dean to Sam: “-I will honest to God lock that bathroom door until you make it happen. Got it?”

Whatever Sam had intended to say in response was stoppered by Castiel’s arrival in the room, and Dean at once lost whatever vigor had been enlivening him, and merely shot Sam a look (made playfully menacing by a pointed index finger), before ignoring Castiel in favor of stalking back to the kitchen.

Sam gave Castiel a rather bland smile, and commenced lacing his shoes – a half-packed rucksack beside him, same as Jessica: “Sorry we’ve gotta leave you here today, Cas.” The added – with _Greg_ – went unsaid, but Sam’s quick glance to the kitchen made clear the implication was there.

“There is no need to apologize. I will be quite alright.”

“Good.” Sam busied himself with his rucksack, and threw in a few items, none of which Castiel could readily identify but Sam was clearly too harried to explain. “Will we hear more from you tonight, though? I’d really like to, if you would.”

“Of course. As soon as you return.”

A loud blaring noise was suddenly evident from the parking lot, and Sam jumped up at once, stumbling for the door.

“Sorry. Sorry, got to go. I’ll see you tonight!” He swung the door open, just in time to miss knocking Jessica off the balcony. They ran into each other and for a moment, when they withdrew, there was a brief stare between them, during which they both visibly relaxed – as easy as it had arisen, whatever disagreement between them dissipated, and Sam reached out and brushed her arm lightly.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, are you alright?”

Jessica widened her eyes and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Yeah, just… fright is all.”

“I’m so sorry, I should have looked, I-“

The sound screeched across the grey square again, and as Castiel approached the door, he could see Bobby, hollering at the pair and gesturing fiercely. Jessica bit her lip, and Sam ran his hand through his long hair, pulling it away from his face. “Should we go, or…?”

Bobby yelled again and they took off, racing down the stairs and running across the stone, where they barely made it into the thundering wagon before it lurched forward and hurtled towards the long grey strip of Road that ran outside the premises. Within moments, they were out of sight, a screeching noise marking their departure, as the wagon careered precariously around the corner.

When Castiel turned, Dean was still in the kitchen, so he made his way to the washroom instead, for no particular reason other than he preferred not to sit on the same seat as he had for days already. He spent a few minutes there, examining bottles and contraptions, taking in their scents, and experimenting with the effect of a few on his skin. It was a surprise, when he heard the clink of metal and a second later the sound of the door opening and closing.

Castiel knew Dean wasn’t in the room by the time he made it back there, although he still called out tentatively into the area first:”Greg? Greg, are you here?”

From outside, he heard the sound of another rumble, this time a little sleeker than that of the wagon Bobby had ridden, but furious and beast-like nonetheless. When he made his way outside, he saw Dean, at the helm of a wagon, rotating it to position it towards the Road, as Bobby had before, as he turned it backwards, he looked over his shoulder and his eyes caught on Castiel’s silhouette and hung there.

They appraised one another for a long moment, before Castiel whirled and shut the door, storming to the centre of the room only to find himself completely lost there, with no sense of what kind of course of action to take next. He had thought, somehow, that progress was being made. That Dean was warming to him, and that his growing interest in Castiel’s story meant that he was recollecting, even if only subconsciously. But Dean’s intention, only moments after the absence of the rest of the party, meant that it was purely an act, or a slip of whatever barrier he had intended to erect between himself and Castiel. In truth, nothing had changed, and whatever the hostility that Dean felt towards Castiel (and Castiel couldn’t help but wonder, after so many days, _why_ ) was aggressive enough that he would deny him even the courtesy of company and protection in this strange and bizarre world, even after Castiel had proven incomprehensibly that he was of no threat to him.

So lost was he in his frustration, and his fury (at himself, at Dean, he did not know) that he missed the sound of the wagon dying, and Dean’s footsteps up the stairs. He registered the key in the lock, and whirled around in a rage wings wide and splayed, to find Dean frozen at the threshold. They stared at each other for minutes, literally. Castiel was breathing heavily, and his gaze made Dean tense his hold around the door handle. Dean’s eyes were fixated on the expanse of his wings, and the way they filled the room so entirely, yet were still crushed from properly expanding, The longer they stood, the faster Castiel’s rage dissipated, and his wings slowly dropped until they hung back on the ground, in their usual posture, feathers dragging across the floor. They stayed in silence for even longer after that, and although Dean made an attempt to speak several times, he fell short of properly announcing anything, until the seventh go, when he managed to stutter out shakily, and meekly (for the first time that Castiel had seen): “Can we just forget that happened?”

Castiel reeled back as though breaking a trance, and a second later, Dean did the same, at once dropping his gaze to his feet and exhaling loudly. When he looked up at Castiel, his expression was entirely changed, and nervous, as though he truly believed Castiel might deny him entry.

Castiel didn’t answer, but to step to the side, even though he in no way obstructed Dean’s entrance the room, and Dean stepped forward through the doorway. Castiel turned then, and re-seated himself upon the main couch, and when he looked back to Dean, he was disregarding his leather jacket and folding it across the arm of the seat opposite, before lowering himself carefully upon it.

There were a number of more minutes that passed before either found the volition to speak.

“So, uh, anything you’d like to do today?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “This place is so foreign to me, Greg. I hardly know where to begin.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he properly comprehended the expanse of time that Castiel was referring to. When he breathed out, it was a little shaky, and he broke eye contact for a moment run his eyes up and down Castiel’s body. It was not a sexual expression – Castiel knew what it was to have Dean appraise him that way – but it was almost as though Dean was attempting to imagine Castiel in his own time. He seemed to struggle though, for when he looked back to Castiel, his eyebrow was twitching and the tip of his tongue poked out from between his lips.

“I have an idea.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Uh, hear me out – there’s a video store down the road, I could…”

He stopped at Castiel’s furrowed brow. “Uh, it’s probably not worth explaining. Look, if I just pop out for a few minutes, I can find something for us to do.”

Castiel pursed his lips as he watched Dean, almost awed by his sudden talkativeness. Dean picked up on the expectation of an explanation, but he only supplemented it with: “It’ll just be a few minutes. I promise I’ll be back. We can…” His eyes slid to look to the upper right corner of the room, as though he were considering how to explain the next step. “Look, it’ll be easier if I just show you. Is that… ok?”

“Yes.”

Castiel hardly knew what else to say, except to acquiesce.

“Um…” Dean stood, and reached for his jacket, fumbling in the pocket for his keys. “While I’m gone, you could, uh… when did you last shower. Few days ago, right?”

“… Yes.”

“Ok. Well, how about you jump in there. I’ll be back before you know it, and uh… you need me to switch in on for you?”

Castiel nodded slowly, brow furrowing as Dean’s eyes flickered quickly to his chest, this time less definitive in purpose.

“Good. Ok. Just uh, get yourself cleaned up and I’ll be back soon.” He crossed the room and Castiel heard the sound from the washroom, and the trickle of water from the area.

Dean came out looking somehow proud of himself, and lighter on his feet than Castiel had ever seen him, since he had arrived here.

“Few minutes. I promise.” Dean nodded when Castiel didn’t respond, as though checking he understood, and Castiel replied by making his way to the washroom. He shut the door, and commenced removing his clothes, and soon heard, above the trickle of the water, the rumble of Dean’s wagon outside.

…

The shower was rather marvelous. Castiel enjoyed mixing the products together and experimenting with the way they interacted with his skin and the water. He tried to recollect by smell which were meant to be applied where on his body, but he seemed to be unsuccessful, as, when he rinsed his hair out, it didn’t feel glossy and smooth the way it had when Sam had instructed him.

He was rather absorbed in the activity, truth be told, and somewhat distracted enough that he didn’t hear Dean’s arrival. He was made quickly aware of it by Dean’s impatient and unrelenting knock at the door. “Cas! Open up, you’ll use up all the hot water!”

Castiel quickly stepped obligingly from the shower and padded to the door. He was twisting at the handle when Dean yelled again: “Make sure you’re decent first!”

Castiel cast his eye down his naked form, as if suddenly remembering it, and made back to the shower, where Dean had laid out a cloth of fabric for him to dry himself. He wrapped it around his waist as modestly as he could, before he returned to the door, and let it open, stepping out of Dean’s way as he quickly crossed the room and reached into the shower, immediately stoppering the flow of water.

“I hope you’re all good getting back into your clothes, cause-“

Dean stopped abruptly as he whirled around and looked to Castiel. Castiel had been rather absently watching Dean as he moved through the room, and it took him a moment to look to Dean’s face to discern what had made him pause so quickly. Dean’s eyes were on his chest, his arms, his neck, his torso, his legs. Every part of him that was visible. For a moment, Castiel thought a moment of recognition might have occurred. It was a bizarre circumstance to be sure, but if… then he saw the way Dean’s eyes drooped at the sides as he traced the lines of Castiel’s body.

“Oh my God, Cas.”

There was horror everywhere in them. Disgust, recoil, sympathy. All there, in the way, Dean’s eyes raked over him, before raising to look at him properly, with an utter lack of comprehension. Castiel turned at once to look at himself in the mirror. It was covered with condensation, from the heat of the shower, he supposed, but he reached forward and rubbed at it viciously until his reflection became clear.

The scars were still there. That was the first thing he noted. The most important thing. He hadn’t really looked at them properly when he first arrived. He’d been aware of their vileness, certainly, but it was almost as if he’d avoided acknowledging them, believing that they would dissipate with the proper resurrection of his grace. But his Grace has not reinvigorated sufficiently so far to rectify any.

They ran everywhere. Sharp cross hatchings from the whip, boiled and bubbly lines from claws and acids, and blistered skin from burns. His entire body was covered. There was no muscle definition to see, and the skin puffed in strange ways to create new shapes. There were no nipples even – he remembered how Lilith had deprived him of those – one with a knife and one with teeth – his punishment for refusing to pick a method. Instead, there were just puckers where the skin had done its best to seal around the wound and strengthen itself again further intrusion.

He hadn’t even thought of the fact that he hadn’t healed, up till now. Sympathy from Sam and Jessica – it hadn’t seemed important. But now, Dean was watching him. His Dean was seeing him this way, bent and broken and befouled by her – so far from the memory of himself that he was presenting in his tale that he was but a grotesque shadow.

He ripped the towel from his waist, ignoring the exposure of his nakedness to Dean, as he wrapped his around his chest instead, to block himself from Dean.

“Cas-“

“Don’t look at me.”

The words were muffled, and barely there as Castiel hurriedly tried to arrange himself beneath the cloth in order to be obscured. For Dean or for him, it wasn’t entirely certain, given that Dean had already been privy to the disaster.

“Bu-“

“Don’t look at me!”

Castiel wrenched the towel around his shoulders as hard as he could, clawing at the damp fabric and squeezing in on himself, hunching over the sink to turn away from Dean.

“Don’t. Don’t. I can’t. Leave me!”

He shouted the words into the sink, so that they reverberated and slapped him across the face as they returned to him, the pitiful desperation in his tone taunting him in a way that, although in his voice, was somehow reminiscent of the way Lilith liked to imitate him.

“Cas-“

“Get out of here! Leave me! Now! Don’t- don’t look! No!” He twitched away when Dean made a move to start forwards to him. He leaned further over the sink, racking out dry sobs now, as he felt the phantom trace of Lilith and Alastair’s fingers across his body arise with their re-emergence in his memory. They were all over him, pressing for the sore points, looking for ways to tease and taunt him and break him, even though it had been so simple really. There was no need for any of it, other than gratuity.

“Cas. Cas. Please, I-“

“No. No. Don’t touch me, please. No. No. No.”

Castiel lost his strength and fell towards the sink, so he was hunched over it, racking dry sobs into the void beneath him. He could hear Lilith laughing in his ear, and the light memory playing itself out at his stomach, when Lilith had slit it open to reach inside - playing with his organs and twisting them, until they were one mess of meat and flesh. Still, he hadn’t died for her, much to her disdain, and she’d used her own capacities to heal him several times just to draw out the activity. It was all he could do to choke out a cry of brokenness to the small black circle beneath him.

Dean’s hands were light on him. They reached round his waist, careful to avoid touching him too closely, and supported his weight, slowly pulling him up and maneuvering him towards the other end of the bathroom. Castiel let himself be dragged, until Dean seated him against a wooden chair, and laid him down slowly and carefully, withdrawing his touch as gently and quickly as he could. He returned seconds later, with another cloth square, and draped it carefully across Castiel’s lap, taking care to avoid coming into contact with him. He came back again and again, with more cloths, draping them over every part of Castiel’s exposed body, until he was completely covered and his shivering was forced to cease with the vague feelings of warmth around them.

When he was done, Dean crouched in from of him, eyes carefully away from Castiel’s face, but keeping close note of his movements.

It might have been hours before Castiel regained control of himself, or only a moment. In a state of stasis, staring at the wall, it was almost imaginable that time had ceased to exist – deprived of any meaningful activity to mark its passing,. Dean waited the entire time, rocking back and forth on his heels only barely to dislodge cramping muscles and twitches of discomfort. When Castiel eventually made to move, Dean at once passed him his clothing and helped him stand.

“Do you- do you want me to leave?”

Castiel shook his head, and let the cloths drop to the floor, revealing himself as naked before Dean once again but this time, numbly. He ignored Dean’s gaze upon him in favor of commencing dressing slowly, Dean assisting where he could, especially and with much caution, at the bronze contraption at the front of the breeches. Castiel vaguely remembered how to do it, but he stood so dull staring at it for long enough that Dean reached forward and perfunctorily performed the task for him.

When he was done, Dean lead him back through to the sitting area with a light touch on his wrist and lowered him carefully to the couch. He returned with a thick blanket from Sam’s room and deposited it across Castiel, tucking it into the corners of the couch. He returned to the kitchen for a moment, and came back with a large silver rectangle and several smaller ones that rattled as he walked. They were bright yellow.

He let Castiel sit in silence as he opened the rectangle, and commenced tapping at buttons of the same, but a different kind, as those on the phones that he, Sam and Bobby carried. Eventually, he pressed at the side of the rectangle, and a small compartment emerged. He then opened one of the smaller rectangles, and extracted a technicolour circle, with a smaller circle punched in the middle, and placed it in the compartment. When he closed it, the thing whirred to life and across the upper half of the rectangle, images commenced flashing across the screen, accompanied by music of an incredible vibrance and richness that Castiel had never once heard in the human realm. Dean tapped part of the rectangle lightly, and the music stopped and the images froze. He turned to Castiel, although Castiel didn’t meet his gaze, and murmured softly: “If you want to talk about it, I can stop this at any time, ok? Whatever you want to say, or not say. That’s fine. Whatever you need, you can ask for. Alright? But, I get that you probably don’t want to, and it was my fault. I just… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Castiel slowly turned to look at Dean, and he nodded softly, unsure of what to say or how to explain himself, or whether he even could. Dean bit his lip in response and let his eyes move back to the screen before he outstayed his welcome in Castiel’s gaze.

“These are… uh, they’re documentaries. About important stuff that’s happened in the world since you were... This one is, uh, something to do with space. I’m not sure to be honest. Maybe we can both learn something. This is more of Keith’s thing than mine...” He let his words trail off and threw a quick glance at Castiel, who didn’t look away from him. Dean nodded lightly, the question going unasked, and Castiel only nodded once in response, before turning his gaze to where the images atop the rectangle once again changed and the music commenced, roaring in an incredible symphony which transported Castiel, despite what had just happened, to a place of comfort and beauty and safeness for the duration of the next few hours, and for that small interlude, he was grateful.

…

Dean fell asleep during the third documentary – something about underwater life, Castiel ceased paying attention quickly – instead turning to watch Dean with his head titled back and his mouth wide open, snuffling occasionally through his snores. He only woke when the group arrived back, sweaty and grimy and dirty from the tomb. At the sound of their arrival up the stairs, Dean shuffled up off the couch, wobbling quickly to his feet. The group had barely opened the door to the threshold before Dean had crossed the room, and was murmuring carefully to them. Castiel could hear, certainly, but he didn’t bother to comprehend what was being said, other than noting their soft murmurs of the assent and the sound of their feet moving across the balcony to the other rooms.

Dean crossed back to the center of the room and appraised Castiel carefully. “I think the others are kind of tired so we were thinking, if you don’t mind, we might just take the night off? They’re just going to… get clean, and then get an early night.”

“If you wish.”

Castiel kept his voice superbly even, but Dean only seemed distressed by that, furrowing his brow and running his hand across the back of his neck in stilted rubs.

“Do you wanna keep watching the movie? Or something to eat?”

Castiel paused. He wanted to remind Dean that his obligations had ceased towards him for the day. Sam, Jessica and Bobby were back, and the statement that they were too tired to return to the room was transparently a lie. Dean had still been evidently uncomfortable throughout the day, shifting constantly and looking uncertainly at Castiel across the couch. It was only in the late afternoon, when the sun and the heat of the room and the meal in his belly got the better of him, and he’d faded out slowly into unconsciousness.

But, as much as he didn’t want to push Dean’s care, it was pleasant having him around. He’d sat so much nearer to Castiel than he had even looked in the past few days, and he’d addressed him so directly (without the fear that seemed to have hamstrung him in the days previously). He’d even touched Castiel, however tentatively.

But that was tempered by a memory of repulsion and disgust of only that morning, where Castiel had disrupted the memory of himself he had been trying to reignite in Dean with a vision of himself now that was too far departed from what Dean had loved. Having Dean here, even as he smiled and talked his way through the documentaries, as though he and Castiel were friends merely enjoying an empty afternoon, was still a reminder of that event, and a worser reminder of the yawning distance between them, that Castiel was inflating rather than closing.

“Cas?”

Castiel shook himself from his reverie and met Dean’s eyes. “I just… I need a moment…”

He stood abruptly and made his way back to the washroom. He wasn’t sure what his purpose was there, other than escape from the suddenly claustrophobic aspect of Dean’s presence. It was too late though, for the sensation was written into the walls of this room too. One glance at himself in the mirror was enough for his gut to twist in disgust at his own circumstance, and a jolt of regret to spasm through him that made his hands twitch as though they could claw through the fabric of time back before the moment he had unwittingly revealed himself to Dean.

He might have waited in there some minutes before he heard a soft knock at the door. “Cas?”

The knock was much less abrupt that Dean’s sharp raps. It was almost as if the sound was drawn out somewhat longer by Jessica’s gentle movements. He slowly made his way to the doorway, where she awaited him balefully.

“Hello Jessica.”

“Are you alright? Greg said…”

“Greg sent you?”

She bit her lip and twisted her free hands together. “I think he’s worried he’s offended you. He just said that you might want to… talk? You can if you want. No pressure though.”

Castiel smiled minutely and made his way through the threshold so that she was forced to remove herself from his space. He indicated with a nod of his head though that she should follow him through to the sitting room. Dean had obviously vacated the area, although optimistically it seemed, for his leather jacket was still slung across the arm of the seat where they had spent the afternoon.

“Did you… have a good afternoon?”

“It was pleasant. Greg showed me some documentaries.”

“That was… considerate of him.”

Castiel shrugged lightly, and ignored the question that hung in Jessica’s final words, when her tone had risen slightly. “He was amiable enough.”

Jessica’s mouth twitched and she looked across the room to where the duvet and Dean’s rectangle were still positioned on the couch.

“Did you talk to Keith?”

She blushed furiously and looked down at her feet, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. When she spoke, she murmured through them, although Castiel was able to discern the words easily enough.

“We’re going to talk sometime tonight. It was busy in the tomb today, and we barely had a chance to but…”

She pulled her hands off her mouth and looked at Castiel resolutely, although she was still hunched with nerves: “I’ll tell him tonight.”

“Am I delaying you?”

She blushed furiously and gaped at him. “No! I mean… sorry, no. I want to know you’re alright. If you need to talk I-“

“It’s alright, Jessica. I am well now. And I am perfectly content for you to speak with Keith.”

She pursed her lips and surveyed his face carefully: “are you positive about that?”

“Yes.” He stood up and pulled her with him. She let herself be lead, though there was stiffness to the way she received his touch, almost as though she were not quite content with it – perhaps it was in anticipation of Sam’s.

“Go to him now. Don’t lose your nerve.”

She laughed through her closed mouth and fidgeted with his hand on hers, before letting it drop.

“Do I… look ok?”

In truth she was covered in grime and filth. Her hair was wayward, and she smelt like dankness. But it scarcely mattered to Castiel, and he was sure to Sam it would matter even less. Jessica was beautiful, in flesh and in mind, and he was certain Sam was not fool enough to ignore that. He had not managed so far, it had appeared to Castiel at least.

“You look most beautiful. I would be besotted with you myself if that were my inclination.”

She laughed properly at that: “Cas, you’re a sweetheart.” Laughing still, she reached up and wound her arms around his neck, pulling him in lightly so that their bodies were in line. It was a strange sensation. Jessica was so soft to hold, even though there were lines of muscle beneath her skin. Her breasts pressed against his chest lightly as she squeezed him, but the sensation was not unwelcome, only foreign and entirely without sexual content. Awkwardly, he clapped her on the back, as he had with Dean so many times before, and she laughed into his shoulder: “Cas, Dean was right, you really need to work on that one. Here-“

She unwound one arm from his neck to place his arms against her shoulderblades, and moved her head so her chin hung on his shoulder. His slotted quite naturally over hers too, and he held her lightly for a moment, before she withdrew, beaming at him.

“Thanks Cas.”

Without waiting for an excuse, and Castiel supposed she was enlivened with anticipation of her declaration, she bounded across the room and pulled open the door. She was ready to rush through it when Castiel stopped her with one light whisper: “Jess?”

“Yeah, Cas?” She stopped and turned, although every part of her body was clearly buzzing with the impulse to run across the balcony and speak to Sam.

“Greg. Please tell him he should not feel unwelcome around me…. If you could.”

She smiled radiantly then, whether it was from anticipation of his revelation that he and Greg were better reconciled. “Course, Cas.” She winked, and within a moment she had shut the door, and her light footsteps across the balcony were audible.

…

Sam did not return to his room that evening. At first, Castiel wondered if he ought to close his ears out of respect for his privacy with Jessica, but there was no need, and for the duration of the evening, he heard only light murmurs on the other side of the wall, until in the early hours, the sounds were replaced by light even breathing.

He sat at the chair Dean had spent the afternoon in, and wrapped himself in the blanket. Having watched Dean use the rectangle in the afternoon, he was versed enough in its functions to make his way through several more of the technicolor circles – some detailed atrocities while others detailed great achievements. He absorbed them all with veracity, and dawn breached the window without his noticing. Dean arrived a few hours after, around the same time as he heard the others stirring in their own rooms.

“Hey Cas.”

He shot Castiel a quick, worried smile, before shutting the door behind him and making his way to the kitchen, leaving a moment later and looking around the room absently.

“Keith still asleep?”

“No, I-“

They were interrupted by the sound of the door to Jessica’s room opening and closing, and Sam’s attempts at quiet footsteps across the balcony. For a moment, when the door opened, they were treated to the sight of Sam, hunched over carefully, as though it would muffle his noise, inching the door to his room open bit by bit. Dean grinned and stuck his tongue out between his teeth at Castiel before sneaking and standing with his back to the door, letting his body move as Sam inched it carefully open.

It was nearly wide enough to accommodate Sam, when he slid back around and greeted him with a cheery and playful grin: “Morning sunshine.”

Sam fell backwards and into the rail of the balcony behind him. With his height, he was lucky to retain control over his centre of gravity, but his feet fell heavily enough on the ground to echo the hoofbeats of a large horse on the same area.

“Jesus Christ, Greg. What the-“

Castiel stood and walked carefully across the room, dragging the blanket wrapped around his shoulders with him, and peered out the doorway in order to ascertain whether Sam was secure in his position. When Sam saw him there, he blushed furiously and ran a hand through his hair, tangled from sleep, and looked furiously at the ground as though it had offended him.

“Oh, uh, morning Cas.”

“Good morning, Keith.”

Sam swallowed lightly, and pulled at his hair a little, before ruffling it again and dropping his hand. “Sorry for, uh, leaving you alone last night. Kinda… fell asleep.”

Dean rolled his eyes and threw a playful glance at Castiel. “That’s what you kids are calling it nowadays then?”

Sam spluttered and stepped forward quickly, pressing his index finger to his mouth and looking around his vicinity hurriedly, including across the balcony railing to empty space, where it could not be possible another human being stood to witness them.

Dean just laughed,  but slid out of Sam’s way to allow him through the doorway. Sam, in his flustered state, barely made it two steps before tripping on a rough edge of carpet and stumbling into the seat that sat positioned against the wall in his path.

Dean looked to Castiel, still laughing, but smothered it, with an almost theatrical manipulation his lips, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek.

“It… it wasn’t like that. I really did-“

“Yeah, yeah. Nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more .”

Sam’s eyes widened and he looked to Castiel pleadingly, through loose strands of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. The question was obvious, and at Sam’s pitiful expression, Castiel did not think twice but to answer it.

“Greg. Keith is not lying. I did not hear any sounds of copulation from their room last evening.”

A beat of silence was followed by properly raucous laughter from Dean and he actually hunched over himself, leaning to the wall for support, as he wheezed through the ensuing minute.

Rather than looking thankful for Castiel’s intervention, Sam merely slapped his forehead with his palm and collapsed onto the chair against which he rested, murmuring lightly to himself and groaning with exhaustion.

When Dean eventually regained control of himself he looked at Castiel, eyes dancing and flushed cheeks. “Jesus, Cas.”

Castiel titled his head to the side as he followed Dean’s inclined head so that their eyes met properly. “Does he have something to do with it?”

Dean snorted again and ducked his head momentarily, before righting himself and once again smothering his laughter with a twist of his lips, thumbing at his jawline as he did so.

“No.”

Dean started chortling again, but Castiel’s gaze fell to Sam, who looked carefully between them with an expression of confusion. “Since when did you two start getting on?”

“Right around the time I found out Cas here’s got that mouth on him. Now come on, Doctor PhD, Mike’s gonna want you back in the field in less than a hour. If I were you, I’d get myself changed and washed before he suspects what’s up.”

Bobby’s yell through the wall was enough to send Dean back into hysterics, and Sam into an irritation that meant he spoke to neither of them for the rest of the norning: “I already know, ya idjits. Now get your asses into gear. We’re leavin’ in ten.”

…

Dean left Castiel to his own devices while he prepared breakfast, humming and whistling to himself as he did so. The group stumbled in with only a few minutes to spare to take their meals with them in Bobby’s wagon. Sam had only taken one bite, when he lost a mouthful, and it slopped down his shirt. His expression as a result was pitiful, and Jessica looked at him, eyes dancing, but made no move to correct it – instead only chastising him with a mocking “you’re an idiot”, before grinning and racing out the door. Sam threw a few handfuls of water on his shirt, while Dean made a few barbed but joking comments, the last of which he hollered out the doorway as Sam ran down the stairs, earning him a hand gesture from Jessica Castiel could only suspect was meant to be rude, although it scarcely offended Dean.

After Sam left, the mood quickly turned cooler again, and Dean kept darting little glances at Castiel as he ate, Castiel watching him silently, and while he washed his dishes. He continued as he set up the rectangle (informing Castiel that it was a “laptop”, but declining to explain how it functioned), and for the duration of the first half of a documentary that Castiel was too polite to mention he had already watched the evening before.

“Greg. What is it?”

Dean started and tore his gaze away from Castiel immediately. “Nothin’. Sorry.”

“I will not break again. That was a momentary lapse. Please forgive me.”

Dean paused at his tapping at the laptop and exhaled slowly: “there’s nothing to forgive, Cas.”

Castiel swallowed lightly and looked blankly at the wall ahead of him.

“Listen, we don’t have to talk about it. I’ve got more documentaries here, and there were heaps more at the store. Or if you want-“

“I am prepared to discuss it with you.”

Dean’s intake of breath was sharp enough that it caught in the back of his throat, and he was forced to smother a few coughs that resulted from the action. Castiel’s fingers twitched out of the habitual requirement to comfort the small discomfort, but he restrained them in time that Dean was unaware of the attempt, and continued to cough silently.

When he recovered, his voice was a whisper. “Do you really… do you think that’s a good idea?”

“It is a part of the story. It is out of place in the chronology, but I am not sure I am prepared to discuss it with the group.”

“Cas, you don’t have to talk about it with me either.”

“I know. But… I would, if you wouldn’t mind.”

It was impossible to say he wanted to. It would have been a lie. He wanted nothing more than to bury every possible memory of Lilith and her vileness in the darkest recess of forgetfulness where it could be smothered from existence there. But since he had seen Dean’s expression when he saw him, he knew he had erected a barrier there. Dean was afraid of him again, in a different way. In a way that was worse than it had been previously. For now, where he was afraid of Castiel hurting him, he was afraid of hurting Castiel. Worse still, wherever Dean was inside of this man, he was afraid of this hurt Castiel – that had been evident in the disgust which had arisen in his features as he had witnessed his scars. This was not the Castiel he knew, but a deformed and malignant interpretation of him, that made a folly of what Dean remembered.

Castiel would heal in time, he knew, but the longer this vision of himself were allowed to fester in Dean’s mind, the more foreign he would become. In order to awake Dean, in order t o remind him that the man he loved was before him, he needed to offer him a causal explanation, in a language that he could understand – that was, an explanation of Lilith and her cruel ministrations. He needed to prove it was still him, beneath burned flesh and misformed plaster –and he still loved Dean. Everything that he had endured, had been for him.

Dean met his eyes carefully across the couch, and he swallowed so audibly, that every moment of every muscle that worked in his esophagus was audible to Castiel’s ears, speaking to the fear within Dean that Castiel was himself afraid of – that he needed to dispel, no matter how terrifying the method.

“If… if you want, Cas.”

“Please.”

…

** 1425 **

There five or six sessions in total, interspersed with a few other visits from Lilith when she “had the time”. Generally, the latter kind were only for the purposes of teasing or verbal abuse, but they served a clear purpose – without a routine, Castiel was forced to dread them too and anticipate for their duration that torture would be forthcoming. The first visit was standard: “a warm up”, Lilith called it, as she sharpened her blade before him. They started with the rack, which she stated was generally a little too “conventional” for her usual tastes. She left Alastair with him for hours, and when she returned she delighted in pressing her fingers in between the loose bits of skin and muscle where the bones had become detached from each other and hearing him scream. She let Alastair reset them, crooning at him that she could be a kind mistress, and promising him more mercy when he spilled his secrets. When he had none to give her, she wound the rack herself and laughed at the pops when he became detached once again.

The second session, she had him drowned over and over in a bucket of water retrieved from under the ice of a river a little outside Ardus’walls. While Alastair held him there, she wet her fingers and ran them up and down his bare back, in light tremoring touches that might have been those of maid on her wedding night, except for when she sunk her nails into Castiel’s skin and twisted, until she was able to remove the top layer. When his shivers turned into full fits of protest at his frozen temperature, she brought him reprieve by taking a candle somehow enchanted and setting him alight. She’d let the flame go for long enough that he could smell the burn of his own skin, and feel as the top surface melted off. After that, promising the “fun was not over yet”, she would pat out the flames with her palms which always remained unaffected y the flame.

On the third session, he wished too loudly for Death, then Dean, for his confused brain could barely distinguish between sensibility and foolishness. She punished him most vilely for that, plucking out every single one of his feathers, and then his nails by hand. She promised him his eyeballs would follow within the next few days, but not yet. “It’s always better to unwrap the present slowly, don’t you think Castiel?”

For the fourth session, she had flayed and hacked at him with her blade, until parts of him were left skinned and bleeding, and he was screaming and cursing his divine resiliency to her injuries, and she laughed and cursed his Father too along with him, screeching it to the empty stone walls. When he had yelled himself hoarse, she turned to him, laughing: “Torturing your kind is so much more delightful than torturing humans. They wouldn’t have survived a day of this. But _you._ You’re tough, aren’t you my boy?” He fell asleep despite her delighted yells after two days of her presence in the cell, sheer exhaustion overpowering him. When he woke, it was to Lilith’s mocking cry, which eagerly anticipated what would prove the worst torture of all:

“Oh Dean. Yes. _Dean. Dean_.”

She grinned at him, letting her top teeth rip across her lower lip slowly and tantalisingly. She was breathing heavily, letting her words come out as breathy gasps.

“ _Yesssss_.”

She let her mouth drop open and stared him down with heavy-lidded eyes. Alastair, at her side, curled his lip at let a single “ _heh”_ breathe out.

Castiel curled away from her and squinted his eyes shut. His hands, at the moment only loosely manacled, he raised to his head and pressed against his ears, willing away the sound of her taunts.

“No no, Cas. Don’t do that, I want to _see_ you.” She chuckled as Castiel felt the manacles around his arms tighten and a moment later his left arm was torn from where it gripped his ear. He fought, but it was a weak attempt, and Alastair took only a minute to tighten the chains such that Castiel’s arms were pinned up against the wall, his naked form bared to Lilith’s gaze. She let her eyes rake down his bleeding body, licking her lips.

“You miss it, don’t you Cas. Having him fuck you?”

Castiel swallowed and turned his head against the wall, mashing his cheek against the cold, wet stone. If he could, he’d have twisted it far enough to break his own neck.

“Oh you loved it when he pounded into you? Right? Nice and hard? So you couldn’t walk straight for days?” Castiel felt himself wince at the words and he gave an involuntary shiver, as Lilith’s silky voice ran across his body like a taunting caress. “Or did you like it soft, Cas? Like a bitch? Did you want him to look at you while he did it, tell you he loved you?”

Castiel couldn’t help but hold back the whimper, and he could practically hear Lilith’s elation when she realized she’d struck gold.

“That’s it. Let him lick you all over. Rub himself all over you. Get you sticky with him, right Cas? And you’d writhe there, begging for more?”

Alastair laughed louder this time and Castiel heard his jaw click.

“You were dreaming about it weren’t you. Having him there? Holding you? Rutting against you? _Defiling you_?”

At the touch of Lilith’s hand to his foot he couldn’t help but yelp, and he immediately thumped his head back against the wall, to silence himself.

He shivered in earnest when she traced her long, jagged fingernails up his leg and along the side of his inner thigh.

“It’s alright now, Cas. My Angel.”

Castiel heaved in a breath and swallowed the vomit that rose in his throat. Perhaps it would have been better to let it come, and befoul Lilith. But the reprimand would likely be quick, and the worst yet.

“What’s the matter?”

Castiel shook his head into the wall and didn’t answer.

“You don’t want me to touch you?”

When he didn’t answer, she grabbed the skin of his inner thigh, right next to his balls, and _twisted_. Castiel howled.

“But you let him touch you, you little whore. You let his filthy hands all over you. Didn’t you? Right _here._ ”

Her fingers grazed the offending spot and Castiel sobbed brokenly. She ran them up and down him once or twice, with a twisted smile cracking her face in two, before it turned to a scowl and she withdrew them like she’d been burned and moved to wipe them against her white dress, now marked up with Castiel’s blood and sick. _And Dean_. She promised. _I had him too Castiel_.

He coughed at the way his throat constricted, as though he could kill himself that way and have it over with.

“You _disgust me_.”

He pulled his legs up to his chest, although it was little use. Lilith would touch him again if she wanted to. She would have methods at the ready. But now, it was all he could to but to hide himself from her filthy gaze, and keep that part of himself a little longer.

“You let the filth of the earth touch you, and yet you recoil from me. _Lucifer_ made _me_. Whore.”

Alastair hissed and a moment later Castiel felt the slap of a whip across his legs. He let the knees drop to his sides, obligingly, but screwed his eyes shut.

“He violated you with his filth, Castiel. Don’t you know that. He’s impure and vile. They all are. But you and I. We’re both divine.”

 _You’re a monster_.

Castiel couldn’t spit the words out, for his jaw was now tremoring too, but they reverberated through his mind with all the force as if he had screamed himself hoarse with them.

“If you want to be fucked, I can show you. I’ll make it good, Castiel. You’ll forget all about him.”

She advanced upon him and cradled his head in her hands, running her fingers through his hair softly, gently.

“Would you like that?”

She ran her thumb along his cheekbone and to his lips, which she pressed firmly at until he let them part for her. Slowly, she let it trace the inside of his mouth, feeling for his tongue, the inside of his cheeks and his teeth. Then, she let her thumb run up his front top teeth and pushed at his lip until it was pressed backwards against his face, brushing his nose.

“I’ll give you a choice. You let me touch you, or I take these out.”

Castiel whimpered but his eyes met hers. The positioning of his mouth made it awkward, but he did what he could and spat against her hand.

She withdrew her hand and raised it to her mouth, sucking on her fingers one by one and then licking her palm, which she placed on the centre of his face and rubbed. Alastair cackled behind her, but she silenced him with an aggressive _sh!_ When she spoke, her voice was even, and childish again, far higher than her natural register. “You’ll regret that, Castiel.”

Turning to Alastair, her voice dropped back to it’s true sound, so that every part of her cruelty bled through it and made the very room shiver with fear. “Teeth first.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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	13. Buffer The Feeble Defiant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my most majestic and wondrous readers! I hope you have all been keeping well. I am here to offer an apology for failing to keep to my proclaimed fast track of updates this week. Rest assured, your extra chapter will be coming (this Wednesday). I just had a week that was not to be borne this week – my employer thinks that 16 hour days at the office are totes legit, even if I spent the next few days stumbling around, blinking just to make out things right in front of me after my eyes decided they were fed up of this staring at a computer screen all day bullshit. I also apologise for venting about my job here – I am sure it makes me an incredibly dull and irritating person. Never fear! I have made an appointment to see a careers whizz type person, whom I hope will give me some super duper ideas for finding an employer who will treat me like a human and not a soulless automaton.  
> Anywho, your promised chapter will be up on Wednesday, and after that I will resume weekly updates. I think this story should be finished soon, at which time I can speed up the updates again, and start working on some new projects!  
> Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read, and your unequivocally kind and supportive feedback. I am always so grateful to see those of you who have taken the time to write me, and I treasure your usernames and avatars in my heart amongst my list of magnificent people.  
> See you all Wednesday!

** CHAPTER TWELVE **

** 2013 **

When Castiel fell asleep it was with Dean’s hand clutched tight in his. Dean had thrown up after hearing the story, unable to even make it to the final sessions (which Castiel had acquiesced in not describing) and when he’d returned he’d merely sat, staring gormlessly at Castiel and shivering lightly beside him. At some point, Dean’s fingers had reached minutely from his thigh, so that the heel of his hand still sat against it, towards Castiel. Castiel, struck with tremors himself, had stared at it for a long time, until Dean had summoned the courage to reach for him properly and squeeze his fist as hard as he could.

Even in sleep, that touch didn’t relent for as long as Castiel stayed awake, watching the man beside him. He was Greg, still – weary, bruised and tattered in a way that Dean was not – and his whole body seemed to constantly thrum with a vague ache, that Castiel somehow felt intuitively in his own muscles whenever Dean was near him. But Dean – not Greg - was stirring, he was sure, beneath fluttering eyelids and freckled skin, awaking from his own unconsciousness, to claw his way back to Castiel. Now more than ever, as painful as it had been to speak of it, he was sure Dean was fighting within himself to return to Castiel truly, and to end this six hundred year torment endured by them in common.

It was out of habit that he fell asleep beside Dean, so used to his warm touch being a comfort and an escort to temporary unconsciousness. Greg ran cooler, and his hand was clammy to the touch while Dean’s had been drier and warmer, but the memory of where there had once been warmth was enough to lull Castiel away momentarily, sufficient to drop his guard and take recourse in a visit to oblivion.

Dean was not in the room when Castiel woke, though he heard him showering in the next room. Castiel fought against visualising him in there – he was Greg still, not Dean – it was invasive, so long as he was not consciously Castiel’s. He turned instead, to memories rather than imaginings, and imagined Dean above him, dappled in moonlight and magnificent – he was distracted for some time after that.

Despite what passed the evening before, the day replicated the first morning they had spent together. They watched the documentaries in silence, and Dean excused himself for half an hour to retrieve more, when Castiel owned he’d watched those remaining. In the afternoon, Dean had a nap on Sam’s bed, and Castiel continued watching, ignoring the urge to follow Dean to that room and watch him there instead. Not yet – patience.

The group returned a little earlier that evening, and they hurried through dinner and cleansing to join Castiel in Sam’s room once again. Sam and Jessica gave no acknowledgment of what had transpired that morning, although Castiel noted they were less careful when they brushed past each other now – almost stealing the opportunity to touch, rather than incurring it by accident.

When Jessica roused Dean, he returned grumpily to the room, and took up his usual seat opposite Castiel. The notable difference now was that he gave Castiel a quick, uncertain smile when he arrived there, and didn’t hide his examination of him, as Castiel recommenced with his story.

** 1425  **

The visit was rather the same as their time over winter had been, in the final months. If anything, things were easier and uncomplicated. Dean shouldered less of a burden regarding his brother, now he had proved his survival to him. Even though he was more apart from Sam, he was elated to have seen him so recently, and for his happiness, despite what he explained was the unfortunate situation with Ruby.

“Still, there’s gonna be a little Sammy in the world.” He snorted internally at his own joke. “No way he’s gonna be little though. Probably leave the womb a full grown man.”

Dean was easy around Castiel too. He’d reverted to his usual embarrassment around nudity and physical proximity, ignoring the visit the night before he’d arrived at Rehin and stubbornly working around the memory when they came close to it in conversation. Slowly, he’d relaxed again, and within a day, it was as if there’d never been any tension at all – as they walked he’d sometimes playfully shove Castiel on the arm, or cuff him around the head, although he would still startle at the accidental brush of Castiel’s wings against his person when they made the mistake of running their paths too close in parallel.

Still, in Dean’s easy company, Castiel found he quite didn’t mind. There was plenty else to do. They walked down the coast for a few days, in order to recover enough privacy to swim openly in the ocean, and explore the mountains of sand where the water met the mainland. Dean, in turned out, was something of a nervous swimmer in the free water, but he’d enjoyed enough watching Castiel circle above the water at dawn, and plunge into its depths to extract a live wriggling fish for their breakfast.

“You know, Cas – you’re basically miraculous.”

Castiel blushed at the compliment, but didn’t say anything. It was worthless arguing that being among the company of a human such as Dean, and seeing his Father’s artistry so clearly written across this face of humanity, was the truly miraculous experience, and one with which nothing previously could compare.

While they were dressing on the beach, and Dean donned the amulet he explained Sam had given him on his name day years ago, they discussed a few practicalities. Dean had the idea of creating cave safe havens, like those he had used with Castiel, just before the winter. Not only would they be useful for his men, should another saga of violence befall them on the Road, and they needed to make a quick exit, but they would also be useful for the pair as a place to seek shelter when they were meeting in the open space like this. Dean anticipated they could make the angel sigils more permanent than they had been than those they had drawn in the dirt that night  - even carving them into the stone of cave mouths, to ensure that their safety would be secured.

An additional advantage would be that Dean could use of the excuse of creating them to absent himself from his men and the city more often – if he were to spend every waking moment in Rehin with a “woman” eyebrows might be raised when there was no gossip in the city as to who she was specifically. That kind of thing, he said, had a way of making its way around. Except with trustworthy partners, like Lydia, who had their own secrets to keep.

Castiel changed the line of conversation soon after that.

There was one topic that weighed heavily on Castiel though, and he was forced to bring up in the final night before Dean was due to return to Rehin, and prepare his men for the Road. The circumstances in which they had met had not been a topic of conversation since Castiel had briefly informed Dean of their occurrence after he had awoken from his fever. The memory still weighed on Dean’s person, and expressed itself in a slightly more cautious tone when he spoke of strategy on the Road, or of preparing his men for its horrors. Castiel never mentioned it to Dean, but sometimes, while he stood watch and Dean slept, he could hear the name Rufus murmured a few times through the foggy babble. When he’d retreated far back enough into the memory of that night, he’d recalled where he knew the name from – the strong and stoic second-in-command, whose throat had been ripped out that night, and who had asphyxiated without ceremony, helpless to defend his Captain.

Still, of late, the memory had been troubling Castiel. Not its gruesomeness – although that was disturbing – for it had not been a sight Castiel had been unaccustomed to seeing in his activities on the Road in the past. Rather, it was one particular circumstance, to which he increasingly guiltily felt he had not paid sufficient attention.

Dean was fairly sleepy when Castiel raised it – he’d insisted on taking more watches than necessary in the past few days, and combined with his exertion in recreation, he’d tired himself more than he had properly realised, until they had settled themselves on the forest floor and made up a quick camouflaged fire. Still, the words at once made him alert and on guard, as though Castiel had announced the attack was imminent once again.

“I’m sorry to relive it for you. But there is a sensation that I cannot shake.”

Dean squeezed his lips together, and then moved them to a pout, in one continuous motion as he thought through the memory, letting his fingers drop against his thigh in a repetitive wave.

“I know what you mean. But you told me, she was mad.”

“I thought so. I believe still that she was. I cannot... I cannot believe that anyone of full capacity could willingly cause so much suffering.”

Dean covered his mouth with his hand, and let it rub across his chin, staring into the dying embers of the fire with a look of repulsion.

“Part of her must have been mad. To decide to do what she did. But... there was deliberacy, and pre-meditation. She came equipped with the instruments of destruction, and she made certain she would not fail.”

Dean swallowed slowly, although his adam’s apple became lodged part way through the bob, until he forced it down more vigorously.

“There can be method in madness.” He said the words uncertainly, as though he had heard them somewhere before, in a context where they had meaning that he did not convey to Castiel.

“But that much method, Dean? She was disturbed, but not incapable. She was so careful to hide what she was doing. Even I did not properly understand it until the damage was done.”

Dean shifted on the log upon which he was seated before the fire, and looked slowly to Castiel. The air soured as he inhaled carefully and Castiel braced himself for Dean’s words.

“So what’re you saying Cas? Sabotage?”

“I think so.”

Dean stared at him stoically and unmoving, until he chuckled with such pretentious force that the sound came up as more of a cough. When Castiel looked to meet his eyes, he looked away quickly and shook his head with evident disbelief. His manner was easy, but his eyes were fierce and determined to disprove Castiel’s hypothesis.

“You know what you’re saying, Cas?”

“Yes.”

Dean stared at Castiel for a moment, clearly disbelieving the answer. When he spoke again, he did so more slowly and deliberately, as though the point needed to be made plainer.

“You’re saying that one of my men, either with me, or in the City, orchestrated a mass murder.”

“Yes.”

“Why?!”

Dean whirled on him as he growled, the muscles in his body rippling as he tensed all at once with aggression. Castiel leaned backwards slightly to demonstrate his unwillingness to engage with the changed manner of their conversation. Dean reacted quickly, his eyes dropping down Castiel’s body and his mouth dropping open. Slowly, he recoiled and turned back to the fire. There was no apology in his words or tone, but there was enough in the movement to let Castiel know it was worth pressing further – he had not alienated Dean yet.

“Dean, I don’t know. I don’t know of the politics of the city, or the state of its people. It may have been another madman. A jealous lover? The woman, Lydia – does her husband know of your...?”

Dean turned to Castiel slowly and shook his head softly. “No, Cas.”

“An errant solider, determined to escape from the Road. One could have staged the attack as a chance to desert? Or another primed for leadership? You said yourself that the Empress has indicated an interest...”

Dean continued shaking his head, until Castiel made his last suggestion. The movement stopped abruptly and Castiel let his words trail off, as Dean looked up at him, eyes wide.

“You think...one of the other Slayers?” It was torturous for him to say, even though his expression was ridden with disbelief.

“Yes, perhaps.”

Dean shook his head roughly and aggressively. “No.”

He shook his head after the word too, as though to shake out the idea Castiel had implanted there. Castiel slid closer and attempted to lay a hand on Dean to convince him to stop. He had only touched his shoulder momentarily when Dean shrugged it off, and turned back to him – still angry, although better contained by harsh, deliberate breaths.

“Cas, we all swore to protect the City and its people. And each other. We’re brothers.”

“Power corrupts absolutely, Dean. You can never be certain.”

“You’re asking me to distrust my men.”

Castiel let his eyes rake Dean’s face for a moment, and Dean’s followed suit, anxiously trying to look for a hint in Castiel that he couldn’t believe such a proposition either.

“Not all. Just... to be careful. To keep an eye out. If your absolute duty is to the City and its people then it is your duty to exercise caution.”

Castiel sighed and moved away when Dean failed to respond, instead leaning forward to let his hands hang over the fire before them and dwell on the waves of heat that raked over his face in rushed caresses, making sweat gather on his brow.

Dean let them sit in silence for a while, such that Castiel grew uncomfortable. It struck him as odd that he was the first to struggle with the absence of conversation, given that his only conversation was with Dean, and he endured many a silence before and in between their time together. Dean, being an active member of the City, should have endured it with less will. But his stubbornness was efficient, and it drew Castiel forward to continue.

“I’m sorry, Dean, if I have offended you. I know nothing of the City. It is not my place to suggest disloyalty.”

Dean bit his lip and looked at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. Castiel pretended not to notice and shifted closer to the fire again, letting his right wing stretch out over it to enjoy the pleasant warmth and the slow relaxation that followed.

“Let’s forget it, Cas. I don’t want to ruin tonight.”

Castiel nodded curtly and let Dean shift a little closer to him, making space by shifting his wing back off the log. There was still a lot of space between them, but for Dean, it was a significant movement, and Castiel felt the simultaneous relaxation in both their bodies as they repositioned themselves.

They endured the rest of the night in silence. Dean took first watch and Castiel slept fitfully, struck with a sense of dread that he would soon be forced back into silence while Dean was still in the City. Dean was the same when he roused Castiel in the early hours of the morning, and dropped off to sleep by the fire. The mid-spring air was not yet particularly warm, and Dean commenced shivering shortly after his breathing eased. Castiel didn’t think twice about draping a wing across Dean, which calmed him enough to cease his spasms. Castiel was, however, careful enough to remove it before dawn, when Dean commenced stirring and stretching out slowly, with light grumbles and snorts.

He left as soon as it was light enough to properly make out the line of the coast before them, giving Castiel only a brief hug, and promising he’d speak to him at least one night on the Road before he returned to Ardus. Castiel nodded and smiled lightly, but made little of the promise, knowing Dean would be busy coordinating his men, especially in the work he’d been kept behind on while he had been out of Rehin visiting Castiel.

The abruptness of the farewell bothered Castiel only a little, although the sense of displeasure grew as he watched Dean return back to the City just before the sun breached the horizon, and the next morning when the travelling party left the gates of Rehin and recommenced their path to Ardus.

It further inflated when he watched Dean with his men every night, and the light camaraderie that passed between them. The less careful touches, the warm laughter and the easy friendship. A feeling of possessiveness, that he could not name, except to recognise it as a kind of selfishness and a desire for ownership, although perhaps that was not the right word. It wasn’t that he wanted Dean to spend time with him alone. But, seeing his friendship shared so easily amongst his men made Castiel wish for more, to recognise the significance of the understanding he believed that he and Dean shared – a recognition of the profound fact that Castiel’s grace had been sent through Dean’s body and revived his soul.

That was strange though, Castiel knew. He had healed humans in such a way before, and not once had he experienced such a sensation. Their gratefulness had always been enough to placate him, and it warmed him more to see them reunited with friends and family, and the great love and thankfulness that passed between them when they embraced. But Dean was different, from those humans, and too from the brothers and sisters Castiel had lost. He had breached social boundaries in touching Castiel’s wings that should have affronted him, but they had not. And he had continuously fascinated Castiel from the moment he had lain before him on the rickety wooden table, sweating out his life force. Castiel still had no answer for why he had forfeited himself as he had, and why he had persisted in endangering himself to pursue Dean’s trip to Rehin – for it was folly to ignore the fact that he was here for Dean and not for his men.

In some unorthodox way, Dean had wormed his way into Castiel’s consciousness and taken root in a way no other had before him. Memories of time with Dean were perfect recollections, whereas those that came before were blurred around the edges, as they were eaten away by the passage of time. And the thought of seeing Dean, and conversing with him, was an object of thought every moment that he was away, as Castiel planned what they might do – Dean might like to see this part of the forest, Dean might like to hear about this part of Angel history, Dean might like to know of this strategic maneuver used with effect against the Angelus by Castiel’s old party.

When Dean managed only a brief visit with Castiel before he re-entered Ardus with his men, assuring him he would return in two weeks, bound for Etrea, the emotions flared within Castiel even more strongly and they followed with a descent of heaviness upon his being that marked Dean’s absence. Whatever it was, he was at a loss to understand, it being so unfamiliar. But it deprived him of sleep, and much meaningful focused activity for the duration of those weeks until he was waiting once again outside the walls of Ardus for Dean’s party to re-emerge.

...

Dean was rattled when they re-entered Ardus. The formalities of arrival were short-lived and vaguely carried out, and he barely registered their performance. Sam was not there to greet him at the gates, and he was informed by Bobby that they had rushed Ruby to the Palace’s healers with pains in her stomach. When Dean rushed to the scene, he found Sam by Ruby’s bedside. Sam assured him that Ruby was fine, and that she’d merely been exerting herself too hard in the last few months in order to avoid news of her pregnancy. Now that the news had broken she was ready to commence her confinement – earlier than would otherwise be expected, but in her fragile state, it had to be allowed.

Sam gave Dean a brief welcome home hug, but was reluctant to leave Ruby’s bedside given the scare of a few hours earlier. Dean conceded with a smile and left him to her, promising he’d check in the next morning when she was feeling better rested. He washed quickly back at his home, and ate the few scraps Sam had left, clearly having all but entirely relocated to Ruby’s lodgings in the Palace in the last few weeks.

He tried to ignore the nagging suspicion that Castiel was right to be concerned and his own superstitious sense that there was more than mere logic to the suggestion that the events of last autumn had been sabotage, but a kind of Angelic divination. The thought that there was more to fear on the Road than what he had experienced already was enough to send adrenaline coursing through his body with such ferocity over such an extended period of time that he rather imagined it would burn through his veins and empty itself through him, eating through his flesh from the inside out. And it invigorated him with a fear too, that were such events to be repeated, his fears would come to pass, and Castiel would left in a less safe forest, as his brothers and sisters became more aggressive with every encounter.

But who could do such a thing? Garth, surely not, given his near death experience in the last encounter. Of course, Castiel might suspect that his ascension to Slayer status may have been a strong enough motive to carry out the act – but Castiel didn’t know Garth like Dean did. If there was any human any purer on God’s earth, Dean would swallow Devil’s Trap whole, for he had no doubt that Garth had no more capacity for such a selfish or vile act than Dean had to sing. Balthazar was hardly a better bet – he had been a Slayer for as long as Dean could remember, and he had served the City with a stubborn sense of duty unlikely exemplified by any Slayer before or after him. Certainly, he was erratic in his behavior, but that was to be expected from life on the Road. And its trauma was evident in every aspect of his actions – the womanizing, the drinking and the generalized disaffectedness. There was no chance that Dean could contemplate that Balthazar would facilitate the injury of his men and Ardus’ citizens. He had given up too much in his time serving the Road to have done it for the purpose of deception – he was lonesome, tragic and clearly hanging onto a last but persistent thread of sanity, and still serving the city. There was no way to imagine it.

Alastair. It was true, Dean did not have the trust for him that he had for Balthazar or Garth. But Alastair was his brother in arms, the same as them, and he too had served the City long past his mental due and still persisted in sending himself to doom every time he reentered the Road. Certainly, he and Dean’s methods diverged. But that was no ground to distrust him – his aggressiveness on the Road was, in Dean’s mind, the method by which he considered he best preserved his men. And, after Dean’s loss last year, he had a strong safety record in comparison. He served the City, and he adored Lilith. There was no way he could do something so heinous.

His men, then. Scared boys, most of them. They signed up in droves for the pleasure of wearing the Empress’ sigil, and the glories that brought. But they were steadily disillusioned and deconstructed in service. Those that lived became captains, and those that didn’t were brought home in boxes to ceremonies of pomp and pretension, that spoke little to the horrific sacrifice that they had endured for their city in the mouths and claws of the Angelus.

It was a hard life, to be sure, and there was little opportunity for exit. To leave the service, or to decline a place offered even in first instance, was ground for social ridicule, and those courtiers who understood little of the road were strict police in enforcing contempt. Dean knew that many detested what they had been brought to, but they coped well enough on the whole. Even at their lowest, the despicable conditions of the Road brought camaraderie and solidarity to the men. It was hard to imagine, no matter how bitter some were at the suffering inflicted upon them, that they would willingly bring that to their brothers. For better or worse, they were bound to each other. It would take a truly malicious and distanced individual to be able to calculate and execute last autumn’s events.

Dean winced as the memory of Rufus’ dying gurgle seared through his memory, growing only louder as his own internal voice attempted to drown it out in a feeble attempt. He could not believe that any of Ardus, aside from the one mad woman who had commenced the event, could have had anything to do with what he saw. Madness was a disease, and it had infiltrated her mind and lead her to commence their ruin. Castiel must have been wrong to imagine there was deliberate malice there, lost in the horror of being the one to restrain her and understanding, before the event, the course of action that would follow that he would be powerless to stop.

Cas. Cas. After so long, and witnessing so much horror, of course he would suspect more horrors from the world. He’d watched his brothers and sisters fall to ruin, and become ruinous. He’d killed them repeatedly by his own hand, in the name of sparing their suffering, only to find out he had perpetrated it in his misguided attempt. Cas, who had been systematically abandoned by all he knew, and now hung to the one lone figure that offered him solace in the upcoming oblivion that he would inevitably face.

God, if he existed, had too much to answer for. And Dean intended, however he could, to one day hold him accountable. Cas was good – everything God should be – so ready to risk life and limb for Dean whenever he could, and asking for nothing in return. So like a child, with every piece of generosity and every small bit of attention. Of course, his enthusiasm was perfectly hidden behind his typically emotionless veneer. But Dean had had the pleasure of slowly decoding that mask, and understanding what lay below it – wide-eyed amazement, still, at his father’s creation and beneath his disdain and disillusion, a love and a faith in him still, and in goodness.

It was obvious that Cas believed Dean attended him because he felt indebted. But in truth, and the visit outside Rehin had only confirmed it. But in truth, Dean was awed that the Angel felt fit to bestow friendship upon him. The best part was that awe never pervaded their time together – it was all only easiness and enjoyment. Even though Castiel was fairly untalkative, and only bestowed a smile or laugh when he felt it was truly merited, he was, Dean was beginning to genuinely believe, his best friend.

Having to distrust the view of his best friend was difficult. Cas was clever about so many things, and so worldly, but he was wrong about this, Dean was certain. There was no way that the loss of his men was sabotage – it was an unfortunate conflation of circumstances, in which a madwoman was taken by a fit at the right time, to the detriment of his party. There was no imaginable responsible party, and no discernible motivation, even if Dean could believe he had been deceived as to his men’s characters.

Still, the weight in his stomach did not dissipate as he thought through Cas’ words for the majority of the afternoon. When dusk fell, and it became acceptable to attend, he walked to the Brown Bear, and drunk himself prettily inebriated, laughing when Garth and Jo kissed over the bar and at her blush when she realized he had seen. Sometime after midnight, he stumbled to Lydia’s chambers, and whilst she chastised him for not arranging a meeting first in order to avoid her husband, she softened when Dean drunkenly slurred out an apology and made to leave. She assured him her husband was indeed otherwise engaged for the night, as he was so many nights now, and she allowed him to undress her with clumsy fingers, giggling at he muttered endearments into the flesh where her shoulder met her neck that her husband was a fool to leave her bed. Lydia was not unused to seeing him in this state, and she refused to allow his advances for an hour, until he had become a little more sentient at which time they met in a flurry of tongues and teeth, and she rolled him over onto his back, sighing softly as they joined themselves, her buttocks coming to rest on his upper thighs.

Dean was still fairly inebriated, and he suspected Lydia may have been drinking earlier in the evening too, so things were over quickly and carried out with a lot of hushed laughter and bumbling gropes. When they were done, Lydia rolled onto her side and faced Dean, and they kissed lazily a long while, with Lydia occasionally assuring Dean that he was an idiot and he would certainly be in trouble tomorrow. Dean ignored her reprimands in favor of lightly tracing the skin of her back with his fingertips. Eventually she grew tired and rolled over, allowing Dean to slip in behind her and sling his arm over waist. They fell asleep quickly and quietly, in a tangle of sweaty sheets and limbs.

In the early hours of the morning, Dean’s mind connected for him the reason for his drunken fascination with Lydia’s shoulder blades and provided him with dream-like images of the form his drunken self had been desiring – the picture of Lydia, above him, writhing on him as massive black wings fanned out behind her, twitching and shivering with waves of ecstasy.

Dean did not remember the dream the next morning, although he was overwhelmed with a sense of regretting something that had happened. When Lydia sleepily mumbled an explanation of his late night appearance in her room, he assumed he was remembering her reprimand, and promptly ignored the feeling until it dissipated that afternoon. Nonetheless, he did not visit Lydia’s bed again, and she never requested his return.

...

Dean made good on his promise and made two more visits to Castiel in the spring. On the first, he assured Castiel that he had spoken with Samuel Campbell, and had been approved to set up cave sanctuaries throughout the forest, so long as they mapped their location for the ease of men separated from their parties. There had been some disagreement on whether Dean should perform the task alone or not, but eventually he dissuaded Samuel from requiring the presence of other soldiers – saying his men deserved the breaks they were granted in the cities. He dissuaded Samuel from requiring the involvement of other Slayers too – the others were busy enough with trading and Dean could take care of the northern paths in due course – perhaps even leaving the City over the winter to do so. Samuel pursed his lips at that, and said he would consider the second option. Dean was not disappointed too significantly, however, and whooped when he informed Castiel he could now leave the cities easily to visit him, without having to rely on the cover of darkness or secretive strategies.

Dean, despite his excitement with the idea of setting up cave sanctuaries, was reluctant to do so during their time together. He protested when Castiel suggested that he do so when Dean was on the Road or in the city, however they both knew it was the more appropriate solution to maximize their enjoyment of one another’s company, and eventually Dean folded with protests he would “make it up to him”, although very few suggestions were floated as to how he could do so.

Castiel didn’t mind the burden of the task. It filled the time that Dean was away adequately enough, and it enabled him extra time with Dean too, in the evenings on the Road, when Dean left his men to assist Castiel scouting for cave locations in the immediate area of the Road. These would be most useful, he thought, for a quick retreat. They bickered slightly about the scale of the map which Dean drew, and Dean took a long time to write out the words indicating the provisions to be placed in each shelter, in shaky and large script, poking his tongue through his lips in concentration. But all in all, the visits were pleasant enough and they occasionally had to muffle laughter in the darkness of the forest.

With their free time when Dean’s men took respite in the cities, they took to training. At first, it was just Dean who exercised – when conversation dwindled in the late afternoon and drowsiness took over, he would commence running through drills slowly, explaining to Castiel that his men should be doing the same in the city, and it was important for him to keep himself in shape as an example. One afternoon, Castiel joined in, following the slow, gymnastic patterns that Dean explained were exercises designed to replicate movements in combat, designed to commit the best technique to muscle memory through the slow strengthening exercise. Inevitably, when they exhausted Dean’s mental library of exercises, they progressed to those Castiel knew. His were less formal, being more intuitive, but Dean followed them with interest, and they soon began to debate the merits of their various styles. Dean was outraged that Castiel was not more rigorous with his training style.

“Cas, this is the one spontaneous feature of your personality!”

Castiel ceased in his exercise and looked up to Dean, still concentrating on finishing the movement of the drill Dean had taught him. Dean’s face crumpled immediately, and he started forward, mouth opening and closing around abrogated attempts at apology. “I-I’m sorry, I meant it as a joke. I don’t... think that.”

Castiel was unsure where the insult was located in the statement, since he knew it to be largely true. In response, he merely flicked Dean a small smile, which saw the tension expelled from Dean’s body in one gust. And so the practise progressed. Eventually, the rivalry in theory came to a head in physical rivalry, which grew to occupy most of their afternoons. They would engage in mock battles, with blunt wooden weapons that Castiel assembled himself one morning while Dean swam in a nearby river. Initially, they kept their battles on foot and choreographed, focused on disproving one another. However, given Castiel’s own informal style, he soon began to break the unspoken rules, taking to flight and using his wings as part of his weaponry. “Cheater!” was Dean’s battle cry for such occasions, and whilst he would sometimes stubbornly refuse to fight until Castiel returned to the ground and kept within the rules, at others, he found Castiel’s refusal endearing and the cry was accompanied by laughter, and aborted attempts to climb whichever tree Castiel had nested himself in.

He felled Dean a few times, which lead Dean to gape and stutter, sometimes in frustration and sometimes with a far more blank, pained expression. Eventually, Dean conceded he had something to learn from the encounters, and took to learning Castiel’s advice on how to make best use of Castiel’s natural advantage as a weakness  – using the bulk of his wings and his tendency to use flight less sparingly against him. Eventually, Dean got the trick and became well-practised in grounding Castiel, disallowing him from using the protection of the treetops when he grew tireder. On the ground, he was devastatingly effective, extremely skilled in the art of wrestling which Castiel knew little of. Once he had Castiel captive, and disarmed, the fights were usually soon over, with Dean pinning Castiel in one uncomfortable position or another, and explaining (with no small measure of glee) that were he to put some pressure this way or that way, he would snap Castiel’s elbow or ankle in half, or he would send him deep into unconsciousness.

At first, Castiel was wary of the proximity that the play fights brought, for it was not mimicked in any other time during their friendship. Dean still maintained his awkwardness around close quarters and nudity, and insisted on wandering into the woods to relieve himself when necessary. Castiel never made mention of the fact that Dean’s disappearing only served to deprive Castiel of the sight of the act, but not its sound or smell. In their first few engagements, Castiel was careful to hold himself back, sometimes allowing Dean a victory when none would have been granted had Castiel been less careful to avoid touching Dean in a way that might embarrass him. As the roughhousing progressed, however, they both became less careful until it reached the point where they might lie completely entangled with Dean laughing into Castiel’s neck as he struggled to free himself, insisting he weighed as much as “a pig that ate ten other suckling pigs” and grimacing as he pointlessly slapped Castiel away. All thought of avoiding Castiel’s wings was forgotten, and Dean became less and less cautious in grabbing them and wrenching them away from himself when necessary to secure victory. Castiel still avoided confronting the fact that even during play, he should have better considered what it meant to allow Dean near that part of himself without further thought.

The fact was, Castiel considered one evening, while Dean was sorting through the provisions he had brought Castiel to set up in the caves, he liked it when Dean was near him. The distance between them during the day seemed artificial and forced. The moments where Dean initiated a playful touch or jibe were elating in a way Castiel couldn’t describe, but it made him feel like he was aglow with excitement and anticipation – of what, he could not particularize.

He knew what they would say if they were still there – his brothers and sisters, particularly Gabriel. The kind of regular proximity that he felt himself craving for was more than a passing affection, and it was not a necessary aspect of their friendship. “Castiel here wouldn’t know attraction if it danced naked in front of him. He’ll just stare some poor bastard to death while he’s trying to figure out what that funny feeling in his stomach is!” Anna had laughed at that, and swiped Gabriel with her wing, but she’d shaken her head, although the incredulity in her expression suggested it was because she agreed with what Gabriel had said, not because it was untrue. What Castiel was beginning to feel an inkling of, he knew, in light of years of teasing from Gabriel, was more than mere friendship. It was the beginning of a physical desire that would cultivate, if left unchecked, in the pursuit of physical intimacy – the kind which he had never fallen subject to, or hitherto been fascinated by.

Castiel knew that humans were different. Amongst Angels, there was no distinction between their physical forms for the purposes of intimacy. His brothers and sisters had found mates with one another, male and female forms alike. For the vessels in which they contained spoke to no actual distinction in their true forms. Mating was about the purposes of uniting two souls and sharing love and affection through grace. How that was expressed was of private concern, and not for the discourse of other Angels.

But humans were different. Their texts and words, as far as Castiel had discerned in his relations with them, were preoccupied with reproduction. Never, in his experience, had he met two humans of the same gender prepared to share such intimacy. Dean was the same as all the others, as far as Castiel knew – he exclusively pursued women and never addressed the possibility of sharing intimacy with another man, other than the intimacy of friendship or family. In the past, it had been an irregular occurrence that humans even became aware of the nature of the relationships between some of his brothers and sisters – part of the intimacy of mating was maintaining a privacy around the endeavor, leaving those moments, even careful touches, to be shared only between pairs. Unmated pairs were less discerning, but still largely non-performative for human audiences. Those few humans who had been privy to intimacies had refused to accept that the same could go for their species, instead relying on the Angels’ distinct forms as a reason for the activity. They pointed to their holy text – the word of God, and their religious leaders – as evidence of this. No amount of persuasion from the Angels was able to change their notions, until eventually the enterprise was abandoned and the relationships retreated to their private corners, unconcerned with human dismissal.

Castiel had no difficulty accepting that his friendship with Dean had developed, and there was a stirring of a new fascination with him within him. It was not surprising, because Dean fascinated Castiel endlessly, and it was only natural that he should begin to experience every kind of curiosity about the man. In fact, it almost felt justified, as a further explanation for the act which Castiel could still not properly explain to himself – the reason he had saved Dean in the first place.

It was more difficult though to accept the more pressing truth though – that Dean reciprocated no such fascination, at least in a way that would develop to the same intensity as Castiel had. The woman, Lydia, and the Empress, held the fascination that Castiel imagined he would soon wish to demand from Dean. Dean expected to eventually marry, even if it were only to please Sam, and settle as any human man would – beside a woman.

It was not that Castiel could not rationally understand his predicament. The solution was simple. Dean could not return Castiel’s fascination, and therefore it would behoove Castiel to dismiss the sensation and utilize the emotional numbness he had spent so long cultivating. He knew that was easier said than done – he understood from experience with his brothers and sisters that emotions were not so easily dealt with and they could not be defeated by logic. Still, he imagined it would be possible enough, and would likely be made simple by his early identification of the issue.

At first too, it was. Nothing changed in their relationship. During Dean’s second visit, Castiel continued with their wrestling matches, although he was careful to focus more on their technique, and kept his behavior clinical. The first time Castiel dismissed Dean’s laughter, and promptly stood up and left him lying on his back in a clearing, he was momentarily shocked, and enquired as to Castiel’s well-being. But after Castiel repeated the exercise a few more times, with a straight face and a deliberacy that had been absent previously, he quickly accepted the changed nature of the practise and followed suit. He similarly allowed that Castiel withdrew from him slightly in other aspects – giving him further physical space when they sat together, and more cautiously avoiding moments when he changed and washed. Castiel similarly stopped draping his wing over Dean at night while he slept, instead leaving him to shiver. He doubted Dean knew of that change, but he did it for his own consistent practise more than anything else. A smile or a wink form Dean was enough to give rise a pathetic and counterintuitive kind of hopefulness in his chest, and any departure from his newly cultivated coolness was enough to let that hopefulness run riot.

But when Dean left after the second visit, and the weather transitioned into summer, it became harder to contain. It wasn’t just the heat of the evening that kept Castiel awake and sweating, when he returned to his cottage, and yielded his crops. Even with vigorous days, in which he fought with himself to drain his body of energy and fall into a dreamless sleep, he was unsuccessful. And as the nights grew warmer, he found himself waking in a fit of sweat and tremors, and fighting to claw from his mind the imaginings that it concocted which took hold of his imagination and had him distracted constantly – tracing his own hand with his fingers, and linking them together, pretending one was Dean’s.

...

Dean had pretended not to notice the abrupt change in Castiel’s demeanor during his last two visits with him in the forest, and he refused to give the matter any thought, until after he returned to Ardus after his last trip of the spring. If he had learned anything of Castiel during their time together, it was that he was private, and somewhat emotionally constipated. If he had chosen to retain his own personal discomfort with whatever matter, rather than air it with Dean, that was a matter for his own discretion, and it was not Dean’s business to pry.

Still, the concern did plague his mind over the course of the following days in Rehin that he had hurt or offended Cas in some way. The thought of Cas waiting in the forest, letting whatever wound Dean had inflicted, fester, was irritating, to say the least, when it would likely be so easily resolved by a little forthright honesty. Of course, that was Cas’ way. He was unwaveringly patient and generous, preferring to retain his own discomfort for the sake of Dean’s luxurious comfort, rather than share the burden between them. But still, Dean had hoped, as they spent more time together, in the heavy shadows of the forest, that things might become more even between them. Even if Castiel had forgiven the debt Dean owed him for saving his life, Dean was beginning to rack up a similar amount in small favors accruing to him over their few visits. Cas was irritating like that – so determined to damn himself without the smallest hint of pleasure first, or even a thought for his own interests. It was always about Dean, and what he wanted to do, and how Cas could help him. Then it was about the Angels in the forest, and keeping them out of trouble. And then it was about the men on the Road. And then the people of Rehin, and Ardus, and every other city that Dean dragged him around the forest’s roads too, at his whim.

It made Dean feel selfish, and that irritated him too. Cas was determined to tell him he wasn’t – what with his ‘honorable man’ and ‘strong leader’ business that be occasionally spouted when Dean was being too hard on himself. But he enabled every part of Dean that made him demand greedily from Cas, without ever doing the same from Dean and insisting he needed nothing from him, other than the respite of his company when he had time to give it.

It was a thought that frustrated him through the week’s training at Ardus, and throughout the other social engagements that lead up to Garth and Jo’s wedding, which Samuel Campbell had agreed he could be permitted to stay behind for. Alastair and Balthazar were to lead two parties the night before the wedding, and whilst Alastair was only vaguely bothered by the possibility of missing the merriment, Balthazar was genuinely displeased, and complained riotously until Samuel conceded and allowed his party to depart the day after. Balthazar pushed further, and insisted he would be in no fit state to escort a party if the liquor were flowing free, but Samuel had no more lenience for him on that point and Balthazar had to concede he could not become completely inebriated that night. He did so with a petulant sulk, much like that of a child, and Samuel dismissed him with a glower and a growl that he was a “disgrace to the City”. Alastair grinned at that, until Dean caught his eye – in response, he shrugged but let the grin drop from his face quickly.

Ruby complained of Dean’s distraction on his second visit to her chamber – which she insisted was improper during her confinement, but she endured for Sam’s sake, since he was so pleased to see them “getting along”. She seemed more cheerful than she had been on Dean’s last visit, and she was now showing evidently on her tiny frame. Despite their newfound agreement not to jibe at each other, and Dean’s wariness of her warning, he couldn’t resist taking a small point for himself by commenting on the fact. Even Ruby couldn’t hide her glower at that, until Sam laughed at her and lowered his head to her stomach, planting a small kiss on the bump. Even though she had the opportunity, while Sam was looking away, to display her displeasure to Dean, his soft strokes to her belly made a smile play around her lips and she stroked his hair gently.

“Ruby’s been missing the courtier’s life.” Sam grinned at Dean and Ruby shoved him playfully.

“It’s incredibly dull in here when my husband isn’t here to entertain me. I’m missing out on all the palace news.”

Sam chuckled and tickled her exposed knee, which she wrinkled her nose at. “I’ve been trying to keep her updated, but she said my attempts at account were even more dreary.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, but with a laugh. “Oh, my love, if a town cryer shouted palace gossip in the city square every morning, you’d still fail to report the most important parts, but that’s why I love you.”

Dean looked away as they shared a chaste kiss and ignored the soft sound of their lips peeling apart.

“I’m glad you’re both happy.” Dean gave them both a small, only vaguely forced smile, as Ruby intertwined their fingers and held the grip loosely and comfortably.

“We are.” Ruby smiled her beatific tight-lipped smile back, but there was a warmth rushing across her skin that spoke to the fact that it was not entirely forced. He may still dislike her, but Dean was glad to see at least, she appreciated that she had the love of one of the best men in Ardus. “Although I’m utterly devastated to be missing Garth’s wedding.”

“It would be too tiring for you, my love. The healers said-“

Ruby raised her eyebrows at Dean and inclined her head towards Sam: “you see, Dean? He treats me as if I were made of glass.”

Sam smiled at Dean pitifully and squeezed Ruby’s hand.  Dean batted his lips together once, until a disapproving glance from Sam forced him to comment: “He’s just looking out for you, I’m sure.”

“Hm. Well, I hope _you’ll_ update me with the news from the wedding. Otherwise I might die of boredom here.”

Sam drew his hand slowly across her rounded stomach and moved his fingers in small circles across her loose nightgown. “Four more months.”

She rolled her eyes again, and dropped her head back on her pillow: “and two weeks”.

“An autumn baby, just like her mother.”

Ruby glowered, before murmuring “ _his_ ” tightly. Sam just chuckled and moved his hand to start raking through her hair. Dean looked away and bit the inside of his cheek while they shared another kiss. “I’ll, uh, I’ll keep my ears open, Ruby.”

She laughed against Sam and pushed him away, and when Dean turned around he saw Sam rising slowly and letting go of her hand reluctantly. “I’m due in the library in a few minutes. I have to go.”

She smiled lightly and let him take his leave, leaving Dean stranded awkwardly with the abruptness of the farewell, and without the opportunity to tag onto his exit. As the door closed, he turned to Ruby slowly and carefully, smacking his lips together and filling the awkward silence with a light popping sound.

When Sam’s footsteps had faded, the smile dropped from Ruby’s face, and she pulled herself out in the bed roughly, her legs sitting open in a decidedly un-ladylike, and therefore un-Rubylike way in order to accommodate the swell she was still clearly not accustomed to.

“You don’t need to stay, he’s gone.”

“Huh?”

Ruby straightened herself, and flipped her loose hair off her face with aggravation, before scratching lightly and her temple and trailing her finger down her cheek.

“You don’t need to ingratiate yourself to me when Sam isn’t here. I don’t expect you to stay.”

“I... uh...” She turned and reached for a haircomb, which she commenced pulling through her hair with aggravation, where it caught on a number of tangles at the back of her head.

Dean swallowed awkwardly, and looked to the door, before turning back to Ruby, and murmuring out lightly: “are you alright? Can I... help with anything?”

She turned towards him, brow furrowing, and a strange expression. “What, would you like to braid my hair for me?”

“No... uh... you seem to have that one under control.” Ruby grimaced as she recommenced combing her thick locks and the brush caught once again.

“I just... you know, this baby will be my niece... or _nephew_ ,” he quickly corrected himself as Ruby shot a dark glance in his direction, “and you’ll be his mother. That you and Sammy, that you’re doing this, it means a lot and... I want to help.”

“This isn’t _for you_ , Dean, if you can use that head of yours for a moment to imagine that.”

“No. No. I know. It’s just... you’re not who I would’a picked for Sammy. You know that. And we haven’t...” he sighed and took a few steps closer, “we haven’t always gotten along. But... your baby... I don’t want that kid to grow up like Sammy and I did, with things all broken and bitter. I know you’ll be a... great mother. And I just want to be able to be around to...help.”

Ruby stopped brushing her hair, and let her face drop slightly. She let the corner of the left side of her mouth twitch, in what was her most earnest attempt at a smile that Dean had ever seen – for him, at least – and set the comb down.

“I’ve only ever wanted you to like me, Dean. You’re always so cruel, and you embarrass me in front of the Princess. I’ve _tried_.”

That wasn’t strictly true, since they had both taken an immediate dislike to each other, and very little had ever changed in the year she had been pursuing Sam prior to their wedding. That wasn’t even accounting for the nasty remarks she’d had for Dean last time they’d spoken, when she’d explicitly said she’d sooner have seen him dead than returned. But still, she was pressing her lips together nervously before him, and an unfamiliar tint of emotion ran as an undercurrent beneath her words.

“I just... I’ve been trying to defend myself, and Sam. I- I love him.”

It still felt fake, even though it was new. Just another layer in the parade of masks that Ruby pulled on for various occasions. This one was unfamiliar, and far more toned down, than her courtly appearances, but there was still consideration to it, and a careful sheen over her face, that mildened whatever truly was at work beneath it. But, Dean knew, it was his opening, and his chance to play along with her game, if it meant keeping Sam close and preventing Ruby from making good on the threat she’d made upon his return.

“I know. And...” He took another step forward, and made to touch her arm lightly. She withdrew abruptly, and curled her lip at him, although her eyes searched his face: “Sorry, uh... I’m sorry, for the things I’ve said. I’m glad that you’re married to Sam. And I’m glad you’re bringing him so much happiness. I really am.”

She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the gown over stomach before she looked back up at him, fingers twisting nervously through the fabric.

“I am too.”

Dean sighed in relief and Ruby nodded towards the chair that Sam had obviously been meant to sit in, but had ignored in favor of crawling into the bed alongside his pregnant wife. Dean sank into it awkwardly. After a few moments of silence, Ruby dropped her gaze back to her stomach and ran her hands across the bump tenderly. Dean, in this newfound, however tentative, camaraderie was unaware how to fill it, so merely let one of his knees bounce up and down and placed his fingertips on the knee so they could follow the movement.

“Sam’s convinced it’s a girl, you know.” Ruby said, fingers still tracing the line of her bely.

Dean grinned and let his leg cease its enthusiastic bouncing. “You don’t agree?”

“Just, I have a sense. I’m sure he’s a boy. I know it.”

Dean grinned wider and imagined: a little Sammy, a little monster, with Sam’s eyes and Ruby’s smile toddling around the castle, following his father to the library and learning to read from him, just as Dean had. He’d be an irritatingly intelligent little brat, for certain.

“Have you thought about names?”

Ruby smiled at her stomach, placing her palms over her belly and cupping it lightly.

“If it’s a girl, I suppose she’ll be named Eve, in honour of the Empress. And if a boy, then like his father, after the Lord Protector. That’s what Sam wants.”

“What about you?”

“A little girl, I’m not sure. I hadn’t really thought about it, since I’m sure he’s a boy. I had an idea for a boy, but I’m not sure what Sam will think.”

“Why’s that?”

“I just...” she looked up to meet Dean’s eyes, and hugged her stomach to her tightly. “Well, I wondered if... we might call him John.” Her eyes searched Dean’s face frantically as she surveyed for a reaction. Dean felt the smile drop off his face instantaneously and Ruby froze at once.

“Oh, Dean, I’m sorry. It was a silly idea, I-“

“No. No.” Dean’s voice cracked as he reached out, in an aborted attempt to grab hold of her hand as she pulled away in embarrassment. Remembering her poor reaction of a few moments earlier, he ceased the attempt halfway, but dismissed Ruby’s concern with a light wave.

“Ruby... it’s perfect. Sam will love it. I think you should tell him.”

“Really?”

Dean swallowed the light burn of tears at the back of this throat, and gave Ruby a weak smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

She grinned widely at him, and at once re-commenced stroking her belly, lit now by more than the promise of pregnancy and the love of Sam. Her words were light croons, but loud enough for Dean to make them out, and the pure unadulterated joy in them: “You hear that, baby? Little John? Little baby John?”

She looked up at Dean, and he was surprised to note the light clouding of tears across the film covering her eyes. Slowly, she reached out a hand and grabbed at Dean’s. “Thank you, Dean. Thank you.”

 


	14. Force Your Heart To Beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, once again, my most perfect and indescribable readers! As promised, the final of the speedily updated chapters (at least for the time being). I hope this chapter is pleasing to you, as it contains the much anticipated wedding(! At least, I was anticipating it, as I just enjoy that somehow, amidst the utter randomness of this pairing that I kind of did on a whim, it just kind of works in a very cute and rather charming way). Plus, my boy Cas has cottoned onto some pretty major things, and things are to start moving along in this regard - always good.
> 
> I must give a special thanks for all the most incredible reviews I have been receiving recently. As is evident from my highly emotional and occasionally ranty replies in the comments, I am so touched by the kindness of the feedback I have been receiving. Please accept my eternal gratitude and thanks, and stalkery offers of internet friendship; I adore you all (in the most superlative way possible). In my anxiousness that you should continue to enjoy this story, I have literally been reading up on how to write an ending (I've always had one in mind, but I never really imagined I would get to this point), and I have been hashing out the specifics to ensure you get the ending you deserve for sticking with this story so long and being so generous! I hope you all enjoy it, when we get to that point (but don't worry, much to go yet!)
> 
> Thank you, once again, for your support, and I hope you all continue to enjoy this story. And don't be afraid to offer constructive criticism on any aspect that develops which you don't like - I'm looking forward to improving at your tutelage :)
> 
> Lots of love (yes, woooah that's a big word, but I mean it - I LOVE YOU ALL!),  
> Overlordofthebees

** CHAPTER THIRTEEN **

** 2013 **

“Seriously Cas, I don’t know how you two hadn’t gotten together then.”

Castiel looked up to where Jessica was sitting, leaning just close enough so that her knee was aligned with Sam’s, but not quite touching. He quickly glanced to Sam, who was appraising that point of almost contact with an absolute and utter fascination too and was not even jarred from his examination by the ring of her teasing.

“We were both very inhibited, Jessica. I did not properly understand what I felt for Dean. And I don’t believe he felt anything for me at that point at all.”

“Well, that’s a lie.” Jessica grinned cheekily at him, and adjusted herself on the couch so that her knee brushed Sam’s momentarily and he was jolted out of his stupor to gaze dazedly at Castiel.

“What do you mean?”

Sam looked at her curiously, but she appeared to scarcely notice. “Come on, Cas, all that touching? He was head over heels!”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand that expression.”

She rolled her eyes and looked exasperatedly to Sam: “It means he was gobsmackingly in love with you. You two were idiots.”

“Oh.” Castiel couldn’t help but smile lightly at the mention of those words in relation to Dean. He knew it to be true – Dean had loved him, more than anything. But it was pleasant to be reminded and assured of that from a source that was not his own desperate recollections.

Bobby’s mellow drawl broke the silence: “Yeah, I can’t imagine what’d be more frustratin’ than two idjits prancin’ around each other for months rather than gettin’ to the point.”

Jessica broke into a ferocious blush, as did Sam, and they both looked pointedly away from each other. Dean burst into laughter, ignoring the temporary embarrassment that passed across the room. Castiel himself couldn’t help but let out a light chuckle too, and when Sam caught his eye he slowly thawed from his position of frozen embarrassment, and nudged Jessica lightly on the knee, smiling at her lightly. She was still tinged pink from what Dean was describing through giggles as “a good call”, seemingly only for his own benefit. She narrowed her eyes at him, but Dean merely kept laughing and extended an open palm towards Jessica: “Aww, c’mon Jess, who d’you think talked him into getting up the courage to talk to you in the first place?”

Jessica froze, before looking between Dean and Castiel as they exchanged a glance. “You mean you-“

“It might be best to get back to the story, Jess, if you wouldn’t... mind?” Sam quickly cut across her, nodding to Castiel to indicate his desire that he should assist with this distraction.

Jessica looked between Dean and Castiel a few times, brow furrowing lightly with every passing glance between the pair of them. Eventually she swallowed lightly and leaned back against the seat. Castiel pretended not notice the way Sam’s fingers reached for hers, where they were both placed beside their thighs. When he lightly brushed his across hers, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged lightly, before giving Castiel a warm smile: “sure, go ahead”.

Dean looked at Castiel, and mouthed two words, which seemed to be “double-teamed” before grinning at him, and nodding for him to continue.

Castiel’s mouth twitched, although he was unsure of the meaning, only Dean’s amusement at the phrase. And that was enough to invigorate him to continue, with some enthusiasm, for the rest of the afternoon.

...

** 1425 **

The first night of summer approached quickly, and it seemed far shorter a time than it had been until Dean and Sam found themselves donning the same clothing they had only a few months before – Sam’s bright garb of the City’s Scribes, and Dean’s flamboyant trousers of the Slayers and Soldiers. Contrary to Ruby’s insistence at that time, the fabric had not yet softened and still sat stiffly around Dean’s kneecaps, so that when he bent to sit down it bunched uncomfortably there, pinching into the skin, which flared red and swollen at the intrusion.

“Have you seen Garth today?”

Sam watched as Dean bent down, and attempted to recreate Ruby’s de-puffing of his trousers. The movement merely served to set them wider on his legs and thinner from the sides. He raised himself, glowering and Sam stifled a smile, as he replied.

“He wasn’t at training this morning. Seeing to the last of the decorations maybe.”

“Jo will be grateful he’s relieved her of that. It’s not really her style.”

Dean grinned at that, and stuck his finger into the tight collar into his neck and attempting to loosen it with a few quick tugs. It’s highly constructed nature meant it followed the line of his neck and ended just beneath his jaw, where its strong edges almost hindered speech and chafed at the skin there, unused to its odd surroundings.

“Are you... alright about it?” Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean in the mirror as he anxiously smoothed his hair down.

Dean shook his head and looked down, attempting to stuff as much of the lace of his cuffs into the sleeves as possible. “No. Glad she’s got the right man. She deserves it.”

Sam took the small statement as enough assurance: “They’re a good match.”

Dean looked back into the mirror and grinned widely. “And I’m ecstatic. One of my best friends is marrying another one of my best friends. And my brother is married to his sweetheart, with a little boy on the way.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched. “She told you she thinks it’s a boy?”

Dean jostled his shoulders and turned away from the mirror, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “And I’m inclined to believe her on this one. She’s got him in her belly after all.”

Sam’s face turned fond as he finished buttoning up the last of his clothing, and swung the Scribe’s sash across his shoulder, completing the absurd, yet far less offensive, ensemble of the two. “She’s going to be a wonderful mother.”

“And you’re gonna be a great Father, Sammy. And I’m gonna be the uncle that buys him mead and teaches him about girls. We’re gonna make a great team.”

Sam grabbed at his cloak as he passed Dean on the way through the doorway. “Thank goodness she’s going to be a girl then.”

Dean just snorted and followed behind.

...

Sammy, all but castrated by the whims of his wife, insisted on making a quick stop to check on Ruby before they proceeded to the Palace’s church for the wedding. Dean left him to it, hoping to hurry ahead and greet Garth before the ceremony. At their last meeting, in which they had reported back the conditions of the Road to Samuel Campbell, Garth had nervously floated the suggestion that the other Slayers sit in the second row of the church, behind the royal family. The Lord Protector had acquiesced, and so Dean made a special effort to turn up early, in order not to show up his friend.

Balthazar had already arrived when Dean made his way into the church, and was waiting alone - with Alastair having already departed for the Road. Dean gave a quick nod to Ellen, Jo’s mother, where she sat in the second row on Jo’s side (not permitted to sit in the same row as the Empress and her daughter) beaming with pride. Garth’s side was full with soldiers of the guard already, and many of the Palace’s various nobilities. Jo’s side was nothing to be scoffed at either, with many soldiers electing to sit there too (albeit looking massively disappointed), along with many of the City’s residents, dressed as impressively as they could for the ceremony of a royally hosted service, mingling awkwardly with the a few of the palace’s ladies who had apparently been pushed there, since Dean believed none of them knew Jo from a marble statue.

Balthazar grinned at Dean as he made his way up the aisle, and stood to clap him on the back and holler an enthusiastic “Dean!” as greeting. “Barely seen you, brother. You’ve been on the Road far too often this spring.”

Dean grinned and seated himself beside Balthazar, wincing as his trousers bunched uncomfortably as he did so. “Hasn’t felt like it.”

Balthazar nodded knowingly and twisted his neck, forcing a click out of it as he nestled into the church’s seat. He seemed comfortable enough, despite the fact that Dean felt like he could feel every line of every bone in his ass, as he placed his weight on the hard wood.

“So, Things been quiet on the south side of the border?” Balthazar’s eyes twinkled with the question, as though he were asking about the latest of Dean’s conquests, rather than the dank empty Road. Dean smiled to meet the expression, although it felt disingenuous.

“Very. There hasn’t been a single incident on the Road or otherwise.”

Balthazar leaned back in his seat, playing lightly with a ring around his middle finger but keeping an eye on Dean through the corner of his.

“Ah yes, the sanctuary mission. How has that been?”

“Well enough. Set up a few on the Rehin path, and one more on the route to Etrea. I’m looking to scout some more over summer.”

Balthazar nodded, but continued to twist the ring around his finger.

“Yes, I heard that our Lord Protector has approved that plan.”

Dean turned and met Balthazar’s amused gaze.

“He has? News to me.”

Balthazar chuckled, and failed to answer, instead moving to pat down his own trousers, which somehow managed not to appear either as crumpled nor as voluminous as Dean’s. At Dean’s jealous gaze Balthazar caught his eye and grinned: “It’s wear. You have to let the material soften.”

Dean grimaced and hit at his trousers again, although there was no miracle in comfort or design, as he’d feebly hoped. A few failed attempts only managed to undo all his good work in front of the mirror this morning, and he gave up, sighing.

“Have you scouted around the Blue Range area?”

Balthazar’s voice was still light, although the question was oddly direct.

“Hm?”

Dean looked up from his lap, where he had been glaring at his clothing. Balthazar looked to Dean’s trousers for a moment before rolling his eyes and repeating the question: “Between the Range path and the southern route. Anything in that area?”

“I’ve had quick scout, but I might spend more time there this summer. It’s a big area, and with the Blue Range being something of a dead end these days, I wasn’t sure it would be useful .” Dean let the lie slide easily through his teeth. Given that Castiel’s cabin was located directly at the base of the Range, he knew the area perhaps better than any other part of the forest now, at least according to Cas’ landmarks. And he was anxious that none of Ardus’ other slayers acquired the same level of familiarity.

“Hm.” Balthazar returned to the ring around his finger once again. “I’m assuming I’ll have to take one of your routes over during summer. I was thinking of using that one, but if you’ve got sanctuaries elsewhere... Well, given present concerns, it might be more cautious to stick to the Etrea route and double back around the Range.”

“What present-?”

Dean didn’t have the chance to ask anything further, as the entire church rose upon the trumpeted arrival of royalty. Dean shuffled beside Balthazar to turn and witness the entry of the Empress, bowing as she made her way up the aisle along with the rest of the packed building. Eve lead the group, with her husband the Lord Protector at her side. While she ignored her citizens as she passed, she did nod in the direction of Dean and Balthazar as she took her seat in front of them – presumably a massive compliment, and Balthazar did seem a little chuffed. Lilith and her ladies maids followed, and seated themselves on Jo’s side, in the empty front seats before Ellen. Lydia looked back at Dean and gave a quick smile, from where she sat at Lilith’s right hand – evidently she had risen even further in the Princess’ esteem and was pleased to share her accomplishment.

There was only a small pause before Garth made his entrance, dressed in his formal Slayer’s garb, which swamped him entirely. The bulk of the assembly was only further accentuated by the sash across his chest, which marked him as the groom for the event. He smiled brightly at Dean and gave a little skip as he made his way down the aisle (before he came into the Empress’ eyeline, of course), before presenting himself to their majesties and bowing while Eve bestowed her well wishes in hushed tones.

Jo arrived mere minutes later to the sound of more trumpets and the entire church rose. Even Dean, who usually had no time for such frivolity, turned anxiously to catch a peek of his childhood friend as she walked beneath the building’s massive archway and through its center. She was dressed in extreme opulence, adorned with pearls and cream silks, which trailed behind her for several metres. Her hair was pulled back and pinned in a way that reflected Lilith’s current preferences – imitated by every other woman in the palace, and correspondingly the city (to varying degrees of mastery). They’d dusted her face with some vile powders and rouges, which weren’t to Dean’s liking generally – that may be how the ladies of the palace dressed, but it wasn’t how _Jo_ looked. Nonetheless, happiness was radiating from every fibre of her being, dulling the powders in comparison, so that she all but glowed as she walked slowly down the aisle.

Dean had to suppress a laugh when he saw Bobby, limping and grumpy although oddly dignified in his ceremonial garb, lending his arm to her to lead her. It seemed like he was using the crutch more than she was, as she all but dragged him to where Garth awaited her at the front of the church with eager and improper veracity. As they passed, Dean could hear the audible drag of her dress across the church’s floor. Balthazar nudged him with a grin and leaned over to whisper in his ear: “Guess they didn’t want her to lower the aggregate class of the event.”

Dean whirled on him, ready to scold him for criticizing Jo’s upbringing (she had more class than all the ladies in the palace put together), but Balthazar merely nodded in the direction of Lilith’s ladies, and Lilith herself, who were giggling and whispering and pointing at Jo. Balthazar leaned over again: “Apparently, Lilith insisted her ladies prepare Jo themselves, and they picked the dress. How do you think they secured the palace’s cathedral for a commoner marriage?”

Jo was nothing of a commoner though as she stood before Garth, clasping his hands in hers. In soul, at least. She repeated her vows with perfect diction, and a warmth and excitement that made Dean smile, albeit a little tearful. It was Garth who managed to lose his sense of the ceremony of the event – staring at Jo far too long when the priest prompted him to state his vows, and forcing him to repeat the question. When the priest pronounced them man and wife, they both grinned at one another for a moment, almost too long, before turning and scuttling quickly to the royals for their first presentation as a married pair. Jo curtseyed low, and well, as Garth introduced her as his wife, and Eve extended her hand and allowed Jo to kiss it. Jo may have been trained for the event, but nothing could hide her commoner’s blush at the absurdity of the gesture. When she stood, she caught Dean’s eye over Eve’s head for a moment, and there was laughter dancing behind her eyes.

The royals left first the building first and Dean and Balthazar followed. They crowded outside, while Garth and Jo thanked the family for attending and saw them off into various carriages. As soon as they were without royal company, and while guests were still filing from the building, Garth whirled around to Jo and pulled her in tight, cupping her face as they shared their first kiss as a married couple. Despite the fact that they had left the cathedral, the informality of the gesture was enough to draw a few gasps from some of the more distinguished guests remaining. Balthazar, however, merely whooped in appreciation and commenced applause, which Dean followed with a few enthusiastic yells of his own. As the cries of congratulations overtook the mumblings of “impropriety”, Garth and Jo blushed and returned to one another, sharing several more “first kisses” until Dean had to clear his throat and cough loudly and pull them apart forcibly.

“Well Garth, one of the finest ladies in the kingdom has seen fit to bestow her heart to you, mongrel that you are. What’s say we celebrate?”

Garth crowed for the crowds, who cheered back, and lead the way with Jo, hand-in-hand, to the palace where the reception awaited them.

...

The night passed quickly in a flood of merriment. It commenced with the usual formalities – an address from Eve and the commencement of dining. As the music began to flow, the Lord Protector extended his hand to Jo and lead her to the floor, and Garth, blushing profusely, offered his to Eve, who graciously accepted, and lead the group in a slow, choreographed parvanne. After a few bars, the Empress and her husband left Garth and Jo to their first dance together, and retired very quickly soon after. Lilith stayed on a little longer, although sat at the high table, there were few who could approach her without invitation, and she left quickly. With the royals out of sight, the proper celebrations commenced. The crowds hushed one another to hear Ellen’s proud address to her daughter, and Bobby gave a gruff word of congratulations to them both. Balthazar then climbed onto a table, and performed a slurred song from Endur, a city much further north of Ardus than Dean had ever travelled, which told the tale of a knight who found his true love and the meaning of existence in her fine eyes. He was off-key and far more interested in swaying bizarrely to his own accompaniment, but nonetheless, Garth and Jo both applauded loudly and hollered for another performance when he was done.

Dean avoided indulging in too much liquor, for he was due, like Balthazar to lead a squad out the next morning, but he had enough so that Jo pulling him onto the dancefloor was not too painful to endure. Sam laughed anyway, but snuck away before Dean could reprimand him, by rubbing a fist into his stupid floppy hair – presumably he’d returned to Ruby to check on her.

The night progressed quickly regardless. Dean found himself staying till the early hours of the morning, when most of the revelers had long since departed. As the hall became hotter with the scent of sweat and drink and dance, Dean excused himself through the open archway doors at the back of the palace’s hall into its gardens. He wandered down the stairs without much direction or intention until he happened upon Garth and Jo, who were twirling similarly aimlessly in the centre of a ceramic square, marked to make out the Empress’ sigil on the ground beneath them. They barely noted his presence for some time, even pressing together at one point to kiss lightly, him stroking down her cheek and her reaching up to hold his wrist. When they broke apart, they smiled against one another’s skin, leaning to press their temples together and moving slowly in tandem, even absent audible music in this part of the garden.

Dean turned abruptly and made to walk back up the stairs from whence he came, but his light stumble on the stairs in his haste was enough to attract their attention. “Dean?”

Jo’s voice carried up the stairs after him, and he turned slowly, head cast down, biting his lip in embarrassment. “Sorry, I was just-“

“Don’t worry.” She rushed forward, tugging her heavy dress behind her and threw her arms around his shoulders. “I’m so glad you were here today. So so glad. It was the best gift we’ve received.” Dean squeezed her tightly back and lifted her up a little, before letting her drop back down to the ground. Garth followed and hugged Dean tightly too.

“I think we’ve been abandoning our guests. I’ll go back – give you two a chance to talk.” Jo winked at Garth and grinned at Dean. “See you before we leave?”

“Of course.” She squeezed his hand lightly, and made her way slowly up the stairs, tripping on the weight of her dress, and dragging it after her. As she turned the corner there was a light mutter of “stupid thing”. Garth lit up as he watched her leave, and bit his lip to stifle a laugh at her murmur.

“Well, you’ve done it, my friend.”

Garth started and turned towards Dean. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve found it. The perfect woman. True love. All of that.”

Garth beamed and giggled, leaning over so that his shoulder buffed against Dean’s. His voice was both certain and disbelieving at the same time when he spoke: “She’s... she’s everything, Dean.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“I mean, what would I have done without her? What _did_ I do? What did I do to deserve her?”

Dean rolled his eyes, and nudged Garth back.

“Well, she’s married you, so evidently she’s already decided you’ve done enough. And you and I both know Jo well enough to know it’s not worth arguing once she’s made her mind up”.

Garth rubbed at his chin and chuckled into it at that, watching the path of Jo’s departure even though she was long gone back into the hall. “You’re right about that.”

It was ingratiating how in awe of Jo Garth still was, even after she had pledged her life, soul and love to him in a ceremony in front of a significant portion of the kingdom, including the Princess whose marital options Garth had (rudely, in her eyes at least) limited by declaring himself for Jo. And yet, even then, here he was before Dean, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and watching anxiously after her, with adoration pumping from every part of him.

It was the kind of look Dean remembered well, although Sam wouldn’t – when it passed between his mother and father. It was a look that spoke to unadulterated compassion for the other, utterly voluntary and uninhibited servitude for the needs of the other, and absolute love, courtesy and respect. It wasn’t just the look of a man in love – any fool could fall in love, particularly where the woman concerned was as beautiful as Jo. It was more than that – a man at peace, and resolution, having realized his truest and most perfect goal with utmost certainty. There was pride, warmth, comfort and truly satisfactory completeness.

“God, Garth, how do you do it?”

The words appeared in the air before Dean was properly conscious of their meaning, or indeed the comprehension that it was he who had pronounced them. Garth’s mouth twitched and he walked backwards until he leaned against a stone barrier that marked off the flowerbeds to the palace’s visitors to preserve their fragile beauty.

“Do what?”

Dean breathed through his mouth a few times as he met Garth’s confused gaze, before he brought his lips together and sucked his cheeks around the strangeness of his question, until Garth produced a sufficient number of encouraging nods such that he felt comfortable to speak: “How do you... love someone that much? How do you just make that happen?”

Garth laughed loudly at that, and leaned into Dean so that their shoulders bumped, shaking his head lightly.

“Dean, that’s the first mistake. You can’t _make_ any of it happen. It’s just what’s there.”

Dean felt his face curl in upon itself at the utter ambivalence of the answer, and Garth’s mouth twitched when he witnessed the sneer.

“What I mean is... I guess people think love is all about the big things, you know? The declaration, the kiss, the betrothal, the wedding, the wedding night...” he broke off, blushing slightly. “It’s not like those things aren’t... great, but they’re not love. You don’t find it in them – those things are for other people. But when you’ve found someone, you know you could be without all of it, as long as they’re with you.”

Dean paused for a moment as he contemplated that. “When you say... it’s what’s already there... does that mean you loved Jo from the moment you met her?”

Garth raised his eyebrows incredulously and laughed again, even more entertained by Dean’s description of his words that his question previously. “Not at all. I thought she was beautiful, obviously. But I didn’t know her. And she thought that I was a walking beanstalk, and that I had kitten eyes.”

“Flattering.”

Garth laughed over it and nodded, seemingly recalling the memory fondly as his eyes crinkled at the edges. Eventually, he collected himself and looked back to Dean, still smiling.

“You know, it was. I’ve been going to the Roadhouse for years, ever since I was old enough. And she never noticed me at all. I must have asked for so many drinks that she never brought. I probably paid for half of them too.”

He sniggered and fiddled with his sash. “About a year ago, I was leaving after the men had been celebrating something with Balthazar – I can’t remember what – and I helped her bring in something. Her ma was yelling at her about something, and I don’t think she even said thank you. And then we just started talking.”

“About what?”

Garth scrunched his face up as he tried to recall. “I don’t know. Anything. Everything. That was how it started. And that’s all that happened, until I asked her.”

“To marry you?”

“Yeah.” He looked down to his finger where a bright gold band glistened around his fourth finger on his left hand – it was emblazoned with the crest of the Empress – clearly a wedding gift. Garth looked up at Dean, eyes squinting to make him out the in the growing darkness and continued: “we just became friends. That’s all it was. It was just that it was easy. I’d always known I thought she was the prettiest girl in the kingdom, and I kinda thought I did love her. But then it just happened one day, we were just talking. And I kinda just knew. That it was there already, just waiting for me to realize it.”

“And what about Jo?”

“Same for her. But she didn’t even think I was handsome.  Well,” he blushed and smiled at Dean cheekily, “she does now. She said it was just, across the bar, right before I left for that last trip on the Road. She gave me a drink, I paid her, and _there_.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah.” Garth smiled to himself and continued to play with his band. “Love... it’s not in the heroism, or the outfit, or in the gifts or flirtations. It’s just in the little things. That you can sit with the person and not tire of them. That you can talk. That you can just exist around each other, and not feel strange. Or even if you do, if you like that feeling. Once you have that, it’s in what you _would do_ for them, if you had to. That’s it.”

He sighed and dropped his hand to his lap, turning to Dean. “When I look at Jo, I see the best person I’ve ever known. And that didn’t happen because I wanted her, or because of anything in particular she did. It’s just... it’s like my soul already knows hers. Everything else, it’s just confirmation of that.”

Dean bit his lip and looked away, fiddling with his hands in the same way Garth had been previously, focusing his attention on his Slayer’s ring rather than a wedding band.

“You’ll find it, Dean. I know you will. Just remember it’s not necessarily where you want it to be. It’s just where it is.”

There was a weighty silence as Dean processed Garth’s words. The moment hung so long that Dean felt forced to dispel it with a quick laugh, and an absent-minded rub to the back of his neck. “Thought you said it wasn’t about the poetry, Garth?”

Garth grinned and pushed himself off from the stone upon which they were seated. “Last time I tried, Jo told me she’d sooner listen to you sing for the rest of her life.”

“Wha-?”

Garth clapped Dean on the shoulder and began to amble back to the party. “I better get back to... my wife.” His face lit up at the words, to all but exceed the moon’s illuminatory capacities in the darkness of the garden. “We’ll talk soon.”

Dean nodded and gave a weak smile, allowing Garth to jog on ahead, so anxious was he to return to Jo’s company. Dean made a start to follow, but found himself pausing halfway across the square to lean back against the stone barrier.  It was silly, to seek a moment for himself, when he had so many in the dark silence of the forest, and plenty of time to think. But somehow, with the promise of returning to the bustling celebration, he needed one – just a few breaths in solitude.

Dean didn’t know why he had asked the question the first time, and he was only marginally sure that he had repeated it in order to understand what was shared between his friends, and what had been shared between his father and mother. Dean had never imagined himself to settle down the same way as they had – even with vague and blurry recollections, he remembered what Mary had sacrificed to allow John to continue on the Road, and after she had died, how John had cursed his occupation for taking him away from her side – for every singular, beautiful moment that was lost between them.

But still, Garth’s words sat with Dean oddly, in a way he could not quite place. It felt like he’d missed an essential point in the speech, or had failed to understand properly. Like he had further questions for Garth, but when he tried to formulate his way around them, he could churn out no substantial description of what he felt was missing from the explanation. What little emerged was a generalized uneasiness with what he’d heard, although that itself was strange. There was nothing odd about what Garth had pronounced – he’d merely reaffirmed the belief Dean held already, which was that Jo could not be entrusted to a more caring husband, and that he was nothing but delighted for the pair of them. Still, the words stayed uncomfortably with Dean – they made his stomach twist, and a kind of nervous expectation rise in him, warming the upper part of his esophagus and making him stand straighter. It was almost like excitement in anticipation, although what Dean anticipated was unclear. His body failed to offer a more elucidating response to his mental enquiry when he sifted through a mental catalogue of women, including Lydia, wondering if his subconscious mind had found one to apply Garth’s words to, and was waiting for the rest of him to catch up.

Dean’s brow furrowed, and he reached behind him to fiddle with the early summer flowers, snapping of a few at the stem and mindlessly picking through the petals. He sniggered as he imagined Cas’ confused face if he saw him defacing something so beautiful needlessly. The Angel would likely gently suggest that Dean leave future flowers for the bees  - an obsession of Castiel’s that Dean expected to be privy to during his summer visit to the cabin in the next few weeks. The Angel had talked of harvesting honey for a large part of the winter, and Dean expected he would be roped into assisting when the time came. Bees weren’t exactly his favorite of “God’s creatures”, but Cas was excited – in his grim kind of way - and Dean suspected he’d end up participating, just so he’d feel a little less like he stopped owing so much of himself to the Angel.

Shaking his head still, he dropped the barren stem to the ground, amidst the already dying petals he had torn from it, and shuffled lightly inside, back to the hall where the music still played merrily. There were delighted whoops as Balthazar cried above the din: “kiss! Kiss!” and the crowd responded with a cheer which assured his success in coercion.

...

Dean returned to the Road on the second day of summer, looking much less worse for wear than Castiel had been expecting – knowing that Garth and Jo had been married the previous night and that Dean had attended the ceremony. Based on Dean’s explanations of weddings he had attended previously, Castiel knew he had a failsafe strategy for enjoying weddings, which usually involved drink and bedding a lady of the court. Dean displayed no mark of having engaged in those pursuits the night previously, but Castiel did not doubt he had. Castiel’s mind briefly wandered to a mental image of that incident, and he angrily dismissed the resulting heaviness that settled over his person as a result. In fact, his only acknowledgment of the brief mental image was to chastise himself for so invading Dean’s privacy, even if it were only a quick, involuntary imagining.

Those dream-like images had occurred more and more since Dean’s last departure, infiltrating his mind almost completely during sleep and sparking him awake with fits of energy and uncoiled _want_ , which he stoppered as quickly as they could begin by burying his head in a bucket of cold water and holding it there until his body was consumed with the need to breathe, rather than anything else. It was extreme, certainly, but by far the most effective of many strategies that he had employed, to save his friend dignity in his unbridled imagination.

It was his fault, he knew. The moment he had properly admitted that his relationship with Dean had become imbalanced, and confessed to himself his wish that Dean could reciprocate what Castiel would offer him, he had awoken a part of himself he had never before had to tame. He was weak, and unable to restrain it. When he had had the opportunity of understanding this sensation, he ought to have learned more of it, instead of dismissing it so summarily.

He knew his brothers had spoken of the circumstance – although they did so with a casualness that Castiel now felt, waking amidst sweaty furs with twitching, irritated wings, did not merit the precise difficulties of the situation. He knew there were ways of suppressing the issue, although he was concerned to try, given it might only aggravate him past a point at which he could manage the urge. Already, even actively denying the possibility, his mind constantly supplied him with wishes and desires, and torturous promises of what awaited him should he succumb.

It frustrated him because he felt that the desires took away from what he understood himself and Dean to share – a more profound bond than mere desire for physical congress. A meeting of the minds, and a touching of souls that he had never seen replicated between a human and an Angel before. Dean was his _friend_. He chose to be with Castiel but for only the pleasure of his company – leaving his soldiers and friends in other cities, the warmth of women’s beds and his family, to abate Castiel’s loneliness.

To reduce the fact that Castiel missed Dean’s friendship when he was away to the wish to be near him and touch him, ignored the very foundations of what he believed he treasured most in Dean’s friendship. And his body’s betrayal of that frustrated him to no end.

Seeing Dean atop Impala and instructing his men, and knowing that his mind had concocted those images of him, in a way he was not,  made Castiel burn with shame, even out of sight. Dean was not Castiel’s to imagine, nor covet and Castiel’s mind’s attempts to do so were abrogrations of the boundaries of their friendship, and duplicitous, for Castiel knew he hid them from Dean for fear of losing him.

It was with a heavy sense of dread and the ache of regret, even though Dean would never know, that Castiel followed the travelling party along the Road to the riverside village of Ilyia – the smallest of Ardus’ subjects, but by far its most productive farmers. So bountiful were its crops that Dean was forced to cut his visit short with Cas in order to return to the village a few days earlier than intended; he assisted with loading the carriages with fresh vegetables, fruits and grains, and in ensuring they were secure. Nonetheless, he made enough time to visit with Castiel for three far-too-fast days while his men remained in Ilyia, complaining of the lack of entertainment that the village yielded.

“You know Cas, you’d think there wasn’t more in the world to enjoy than mead and women’s beds, the way they carry on.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took a swig from his waterskin as they sat in a clearing together, grazing Impala, who was sweating from the ride Castiel had taken her on earlier in the afternoon, which Dean had watched, grinning from the rock that they now both lay against, absorbing the afternoon sun.

“Perhaps they are emulating their leader?”

Dean grinned at him quizzically and turned, leaning his head against the warm stone and tilting it as he watched Castiel. “You know, I feel like I should punch you for that, except I’m not sure what emulating means.”

Castiel smiled back and let his head mimic the movement. “It means that they copy you, Dean.”

“Alright, now you’ll get it.” Dean reached forward and shoved Castiel to the side so he fell towards the ground, save for his hand correcting him a moment later. Dean made no move to punish Castiel further, sensing the joke in his tone. Still, after taking another swig from his waterskin he leaned his head back against the rock and blinked at the sky.

“They’re missing out, though. That stuff is just the beginning.”

“What else do you enjoy?”

Dean rolled his head to the side again to look Castiel in the eye, who shuffled to correct himself against the rock. Dean watched the movement, before muttering a quick “oh, sorry”, leaning forward enough to allow Castiel space to slip his wing in behind Dean’s back, rather than pulling it across his side to keep it from buffeting Dean. Castiel momentarily considered whether or not to oblige – it went against his careful avoidance of coming in too close a contact with Dean – but Dean gestured with irritation behind his back and murmured: “this rock is damn uncomfortable Cas, get your wing in there.” Castiel only waited momentarily before obliging, letting his wing drop in behind Dean so that the ulna bone sat at his neck, allowing Dean to continue to lean his head back against the rock.

They grinned at each other for a moment before Dean leaned back and took to staring at the late afternoon clouds again. “You know, Cas, I thought you’d know all the things I enjoy by now.”

“I believe I do, but I’d like to hear all the same.”

Dean curled his face up for a moment, as the sun’s rays burst through a cloud and met his eyes with full force. He quickly raised a hand up to his face, shading them, before turning to Castiel and meeting his eyes, blinking quickly to dispel the shadowy colors that were no doubt now plaguing him.

“Alright, uh... riding Impala, being with Sam... uh, dancing” he blushed a little at that, but Castiel only looked away and continued staring out at the field, “being in the forest, when it’s quiet and I’m not worried about Angels coming upon my men. Just.. .getting a little freedom, you know? Uh... training with my men, and with you, when we get the chance... sitting like this, when night’s falling, with you... this is good, Cas.”

Castiel looked down at his hands, willing himself not to look at Dean at that moment. It wasn’t that he was feeling desire right now, even with Dean’s proximity. He feared worse – looking at Dean when he said that, and giving himself away, with too long a look that bared too much of his soul. No matter how happy it made him to know that Dean treasured these moments with him, even as his friend, it wasn’t worth sharing the meaning of such words to him - the cost might be too great.

“Hmph.” Dean adjusted against Castiel’s wing, pressing himself in closer to its natural curve, and relishing the opportunity it gave him to relax his posture. “You know, I think I might even start to enjoy spending time with Ruby... she’s... not so bad at the moment, you know? And I think... the little one... I think I’ll really like being with him, when he comes. I’m looking forward to that.”

“You expect a boy?”

“Ruby does. Sam wants a girl, just like him.” Dean chortled at his own joke and lowered his palm from his eyes as the sun passed behind the cloud and a little dullness fell on the clearing.

“I don’t care either way. So long as I get to be a part of it. I think... I think maybe I’d like kids, if it weren’t for the Road.”

“You can’t have both?”

Dean inclined his head lightly, but kept his gaze on Impala in the clearing. “Never planned on it. And that one,” he pointed to the magnificent mare as she pawed lightly at the ground, “she’s my baby.”

Dean leant forward as Castiel adjusted his wing behind him, before looking back at Castiel to check that it was safe to put his weight against the wing again. Castiel nodded minutely, and Dean smiled in thanks, before turning back to the clearing and leaning against the wing once more.

“So what about you, Cas? What do you enjoy?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you asked me, you dolt.”

Castiel laughed lightly and looked back at his hands, willing himself to ignore the teasing affection in Dean’s voice and pretend it was more. His friendship was enough, and the fact that Castiel was not merely overwhelmed with gratefulness for that was pure selfishness.

“I’d be more interested to hear what you know.”

Dean raised an eyebrow: “Is this a test of my friendship?”

“Not at all.”

Dean snorted and swallowed a gulp from his waterskin, before offering it to Castiel, who politely declined. “Right, no pressure at all to succeed then.”

A silence fell as Dean looked out in the clearing and clicked his tongue a few times against his gums. Eventually, he commenced speaking, slowly, pausing between each offering, as though enquiring of Castiel whether he was correct, although Castiel remained stubbornly silent.

“Well, I know you like riding Impala, and performing your acrobatics when we’re training... you like swimming… you like being in the forest, listening to the sounds around you and thinking about everything your father made... um, bees! Those bees and their goddamn honey, you’re obsessed with them... and...what else?”

Castiel pressed his lips together in a small smile and looked at Dean. “I like spending time with you too, Dean.”

Dean grinned and threw his head back against the wall. “Yeah, well, I’m infectious.”

Castiel looked away sharply then, to avoid demonstrating just how much he agreed with that offhand statement. He made a point of examining his hands quite carefully until Dean spoke in a much more hushed voice.

“You know, Cas, I’ve been thinking lately. Whenever I’m out here, we always end up doing what I want to do. Camping where I want to, riding where I want to go, eating what I want.”

Castiel turned to Dean, brow furrowing: “that’s hardly true, Dean.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. Of course not. I am well aware you are not particularly fond of swimming in the ocean, for instance. You prefer the river, because you like that there are fewer currents. But we have swum in the ocean regardless.”

Dean’s brow furrowed in mimicry of Castiel’s and he turned his head so that his temple leaned against the wall again. “Yeah, but, as soon as I wanted out, you came with me. I know you would have stayed in for hours if you could have.”

“That’s not true. I was cold.”

“You don’t get cold.” It was an accusation, although Dean’s tone was playful.

“I do.”

“Not as much as I do.”

Castiel closed his mouth and felt his right eye twitch as he stared at Dean.

“I’m not... I’m not trying to insult you Cas, if that’s what you think. I just...”

“What?”

“I just want you to know, that if you want to do things, you should do them. It shouldn’t always just be what I want.”

Castiel’s eyes searched Dean’s face and shook his head lightly.

“It isn’t.”

“Yeah, fine. But just... promise me, if you want to do something, you’ll tell me. You’ll be honest. You won’t just go along with what I want.”

Castiel swallowed lightly, and looked away from where Dean’s eyes were boring into him, mimicking Castiel in searching in abrupt little darts across his face for some betrayal of the fact that Castiel believed he was right.

“I promise, if that’s what you wish.”

“Look at me, Cas.”

Castiel carefully raised his eyes to Dean’s, where Dean appraised him, mouth slightly open, and lips wet and red. Oh God, Castiel thought with sudden clarity, let him look away before he betrayed himself.

“You truly promise?”

Castiel’s breath hitched at the feeling of Dean’s breath on his face, and the slightly sweet hint of the apples that they had eaten for lunch across it.

“I do.”

Dean grinned and withdrew, giving Castiel the momentary respite of allowing himself to exhale and swallow down the warmth that was coasting across his skin in Dean’s presence.

“Good.”

Castiel smiled lightly and let out a quick breath through his nose.

Dean looked at him quizzically, but when Castiel offered no response, he merely proceeded to lean further back into Castiel’s wing, the rough fabric of his shirt catching o the feathers and yanking them in different, uncomfortable directions. They sat in silence for a long time, watching the sun set, until a pale kind of darkness fell across the sky. Slowly, Dean’s silhouette became grey in Castiel’s line of vision, until he was only discernible by the ghostly pallor of his skin in the starlight.

“Hey, Cas?”

Beside him, Castiel felt Dean tilt his head so he was staring at Castiel again. His voice was a light whisper, made even softer by his curiously embarrassed tone.

“You’ve been around for thousands of years, right?”

“I have existed since the beginning of time, yes.”

Dean cleared his throat at that, and was silent for a moment.

“You’ve seen a lot of your Father’s creation, then?”

“His world is boundless in its intricacies, but I have seen much. Some as an Angel. Less in my form now.”

Dean whistled low and soft. His breathing was light, and barely discernible, even from next to Castiel, where he’d burrowed in nearer the root of Castiel’s wing in his back as the night’s coolness had started to bite at his skin.

“What’s... what’s the best bit?”

“Of what? His creation?”

“Everything. Everything you’ve ever experienced.”

Castiel sighed and looked around the clearing, momentarily retreating to the recesses of his memory. The birth of Christ and his passion, the beautiful complexity of his natural world and the precariousness of the perfect balance that enabled life, the massiveness of the universe, and what waited beyond the inky skies (that which Dean’s people knew nothing of), his children’s perfect humanity and their incredible creations –art and music and dance. The greatest structures, the greatest disasters, the greatest sacrifices and the greatest shows of love across the globe. All his father’s creation. All beautiful, all perfect, all insurmountable in comprehension.

And Dean, sitting beside him. The human in which he had left part of his soul. The human that had invigorated him when he was deadened to the world in his hollow home, filled with cobwebs and dust and various other marks of his slow fossilizing. The man who sacrificed his health, his sanity and his family for love of his people, and offered care and compassion to Castiel, where no human had offered the same before. The man who had only hours before, made him promise, and swear, to do what he wished, even when it diverged from Dean’s own wishes. To be honest, and selfish, and ask. The man who was curled into his wing and emanating warmth that caught at the tips of Castiel’s feathers and spread through their roots, so that his whole being tingled with the exhilaration of his proximity to Dean and thrummed with an energy with which he had never encountered, even with his Father’s hand upon his shoulder.

His answer was as honest in his experience, as it was dishonest to the promise he had made himself – that he would appreciate Dean’s friendship, and never ask for more – and it made Dean start and audibly gasp, although they spoke no more of it in the rest of his visit.

“This moment, here. It is the greatest.”

...

** 2013 **

Castiel finished speaking with his eyes fixed on Dean’s and his fingers mere centimeters from Dean’s own. As he finished, and Jessica let out a small noise – a tiny gasp that was likely only registered by Castiel’s ears – he turned away abruptly, feeling Dean mimic the action beside him with similarly anxious speed. Across from them, the three seated on the couch stared confusedly between them, before Sam stood up quickly.

“Well, it’s only – uh – 3am, so it might be best that we finish up now. Got a... big day tomorrow.”

Jessica quickly followed suit, brushing off her shirt and reaching to tie her hair back behind her head. They met eyes briefly, before turn to Castiel and Dean, neither of whom had moved from their seats on the couch.

“Uh, Greg, is it really worth you driving home at this hour? We’ll be leaving at around 7 tomorrow.”

Dean looked uncertainly to Castiel, before rubbing nervously at his nose and meeting her eyes. “Shit, uh... probably not?”

Jessica threw another glance at Castiel before she turned to Dean. “There’s a spare bed, in my room. I got, uh, two singles instead of a double. You can sleep there.”

Sam looked to her quickly, and she raised her eyebrows, biting at her lip. “Or, uh, Keith and I could take those, and you could take his bed?”

Dean looked at Castiel nervously, and laced his fingers together in his lap. “That ok with you, Cas?”

The combined effect of four gazes upon him saw Castiel pressing himself further back into the couch, so that it squeaked with the effort of holding the weight of his wings, and the pressure he exerted upon it.

Dean’s lip twitched, and he slid forward on the couch: “Or if that doesn’t work, I can just-“

“That is no problem, Greg. I do not mind.”

“You sure?”

Dean looked back to Castiel with wide eyes, and the resemblance to the Dean of 1425, whom he had been imagining only moments ago, was so uncanny, despite the obvious age gap between the two, that Castiel was forced to look away quickly. “Of course.”

“Alright then. Keith, if that’s ok with you? Or Cas, I can sleep here, and you can take...”

“It’s alright, Greg. I will likely not sleep.”

“Oh... cool.”

Sam and Jessica shuffled a little on their feet, before Jessica briskly announced: “alright then, time for bed!” Sam responded quickly, and all but stampeded to the door, holding it open for Jessica. Bobby was first to stumble through it, gruffly mumbling in a state that indicated he was already partially asleep. As Jessica made to follow, Castiel called out behind her: “Jessica? One moment please?”

She whirled around abruptly, and for a moment her face betrayed the urgency with which she felt obliged to leave the room, before she covered it quickly and returned.

“Sure, Cas. What is it?”

Castiel looked to where Dean was still seated on the couch, looking between them curiously.

“One moment alone with Jessica, please, Greg?”

Dean stared for one moment before laughing embarrassedly. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Sorry.”

With one swift movement he stood up from the couch and walked deliberately to Sam’s room, although upon his arrival it was clear he had not planned a further deliberate step, for the sound of his aimless shuffles was evident through the wall.

Jessica watched him leave and listened to the sounds, mimicking CAstiel, until he turned back towards her, and she met his eyes curiously.

“What is it, Cas?”

“Will you be in the tomb tomorrow?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, probably. Why?”

Castiel dropped his gaze to his feet as he mumbled out a response: “there is something there I would like to retrieve, if you could assist me?”

She sniffed lightly, but her voice was even and warm as ever: “Of course, Cas. What is it?”

“It is an amulet, approximately the size of your thumb, made of bronze. It used to hang on a leather thong, although, I suppose that will long since have disintegrated.”

“Oh, you might be lucky Cas. Sometimes, in the right conditions, these things are preserved rather well.”

He smiled a little at that: “I hope so.”

He looked up to meet her eyes, and she smiled at him expectantly: “Where is it?”

“At the back end of the tomb, opposite the door, where you found me. Four stones along from the right restraint at the base, and two stones up. The stone should be loose. It is hidden behind there.”

“This amulet... is it... is it the one Dean used to wear? Did he-?”

Castiel paused for a moment, noting that the way Jessica held her breath indicated that she already knew the answer.

“Yes. It was his.”

“ _Oh_.”

She breathed out the final word and at once moved to clutch one of his hands in both of hers. They were warm and soft, like silk in sunlight and he felt their warmth spread immediately to his core.

“Of course, Cas. I’ll look for it first thing. I promise.”

“Thank you, Jessica. I do appreciate it.”

She ran her thumb quickly over his palm with reassurance.

“I’m sorry we can’t take you there to look yourself, but-“

“It is quite alright, I would rather never return to that place.”

Jessica’s grip suddenly tightened around his and Castiel wondered, only momentarily, before noting that her fright was more general  than specific, if Dean had disclosed what they had spoken of earlier.

“Oh. Of course, Cas. I’m sorry.”

“There is no need.” He rotated his hand in hers so that it gripped her bottom one. “You are dong me the most wonderful service by retrieving the amulet.”

“You’re welcome.” She dropped her gaze to their entwined hands, and Castiel abruptly let her hand drop from his. She smiled lightly and looked back up to meet his eyes. “If you need anything tonight, just knock. Keith and I won’t mind.”

He smiled at the collective reference to their intentions, and she blushed when she noticed his gaze. “Oh shush you.”

He laughed lightly and stared down at her, as the blush spread across her cheeks, lighting up their apples with a bright rosiness that was very becoming: “I am happy for you, Jessica.”

She laughed too and winked at him: “Night, Cas. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

He escorted her to the door and held it open for her, as Sam had. She giggled at the gesture and waved through the window as she walked across the balcony and opened the door. There were a few noises as she arrived in her room, although, both she and Sam settled within minutes, and Castiel heard the click as the light in their room went out.

A few minutes later, Dean emerged from the washroom, face dripping from where he’d splashed water on it and chewing on a pungent smelling circle of rubbery material. Castiel wrinkled his nose and the smell and Dean stopped immediately, tucking the thing under his tongue and keeping his mouth firmly closed.

“Uh, anything you need, Cas?”

His eyes surveyed the room, noting the state of disarray of the couch and its cushions. “Can I set up another dvd, or...?” He walked over the threshold and into the room, pressing his fingers into his breeches and rocking back and forward on his heels.

“It’s quite alright, Greg. I will appreciate the quiet time tonight.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Well. Night.”

“Goodnight Greg.”

Dean looked at Castiel and blinked once or twice, before shaking his head minutely and looking away quickly, his eyes darting around the room and searching for purchase elsewhere.

“Cool, I’ll... see you tomorrow, Cas.” He gave a flicker of a smile, before turning and dragging his feet lightly across the floor to Sam’s room, where Castiel heard the sound of his undressing and slipping into bed. Castiel seated himself at the couch and let his wings stretch out, allowing small shivers as the muscles enjoyed pulling out the tightness that had accumulated there. He recommenced grooming shortly after, listening for the sound of Dean’s falling asleep. It never followed though, and even after Castiel finished grooming and lay back on the couch, seeking a meditative state of relaxation, he noted that on the other side of the wall, Dean’s breathing remained light and irregular, and he regularly shifted in his bed, never once settling before dawn.


	15. Choke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dearest friendships!
> 
> Please find below the final of my promised expedited updates. From now on, at least until I have a fully completed draft of this fic, updates will proceed weekly once more. I dearly wish I could keep up bi-weekly updates for you all, as uploading and reading your comments are the best parts of my week by far. But unfortunately, given the length of these chapters, that kind of volume simply won't be practicable, and I'd rather give you something regularly, than things in short, sharp bursts.
> 
> This is another purely Greg/Cas chapter. I never mean for these two to have as much time together as they do, especially since things are right at the peak of getting started for Dean/Cas, but they just want to bond so very much, and I can't help but let them. Plus this chapter is going to start helping out with the point of the Greg/Dean distinction. Note that by the end of the chapter, Cas starts referring to 2013 Dean as Greg. This is something I have always intended to do (hence the different names - it's a marker of Greg having a distinct personhood), but I hope it will help with some of the name difficulties too!
> 
> Finally, now that I have started writing smut, I cannot stop (even though goodness, it is excessively difficult); the offshoot of sexual tension is, of course, sexual frustration. This means that whatever you have felt has been sorely lacking in this fic thus far, it will all be made up in the following few updates. Hopefully it is of passable quality. I've spent so much time with these two over the past few months that I rather feel like I'm intruding. However, I believe they are far too caught up in one another to give a damn about anything (and of course they are fictional characters!)
> 
> Oh, and as an addenda, I want to thank you all so so much for the wonderful reviews I have been receiving recently. As I have declared to you all in the comments already, they mean so very very much to me, and I have written them all out and put them in "jar of good things from 2014". You will now all be treasured eternally. Thank you all, and as always, I am ready and willing for constructive feedback, and anxious to improve.
> 
> Looking forward to next week already!

** CHAPTER FOURTEEN **

** 2013 **

The others had little opportunity to revisit Sam’s room the next morning, but they waved at Castiel through the window as they raced down t Bobby’s wagon. Bobby, for whatever reason, appeared to be in a better mood, for he was merciful enough not to activate the howling instrument of his wagon (what Castiel understood was a “horn”, from Dean’s explanations when they had watched one of his dvds concerning wagon production). The group created a decent amount of noise, despite their attempts to sneak carefully from their rooms, and Dean used the excuse to pretend to be woken, staggering out of Sam’s room and stretching for Castiel’s benefit. There was no lethargy in his muscles, however, which would have been obvious, even if Castiel had not been aware that Dean had spent some time just after dawn pacing in the room. There was a slightly sickly pallor in Dean’s face too, that spoke to his lack of sleep and heaviness in his gait.

Still he kept up the pretense at the sound of Bobby’s wagon departing, with an unhealthy kind of roar, at which Dean muttered: “should be in a scrapyard”, before dragging himself around the room and rubbing at his eyes to dismiss phantom sleepiness.

Eventually, he settled on the couch opposite Castiel, scratching at the side of his neck and appraising him carefully. “So, uh... what would you like to do today?”

Castiel took in Dean’s rumpled clothing, clearly not made for lying in, and his mussed hair before he answered. He took a moment to stifle the rise of affection he felt at seeing Dean so unprepared in the morning  - an appearance he was particularly fond of - by sucking in his stomach and swallowing hard. _Greg was not Dean_. Not yet.

“We could watch some more dvds today, perhaps? Or I could read some of your modern books? Perhaps you have some ideas?”

Dean leaned forward, eyes gleaming: “Oh man, Vonnegut for sure, and-“ He was cut off by the sound of an abrupt trill from his pocket, and he paused, eyes flickering between it and Castiel, until Castiel nodded his acquiescence. Dean grinned pulled the phone from his breeches, checking something on the screen before looking back to Castiel: “sorry, I’ve gotta take this. Five minutes?”

Castiel nodded silently, and looked away as Dean flipped open the phone and smiled at the voice that spoke from there. In this proximity, it was difficult for Castiel not to make out the sound of the person on the other end, and he recognized the tone at once in spite of himself, despite his intention to give Dean privacy in the conversation. The person had a light and easy way of speaking, with the slightest hint of a lisp. Even before Castiel properly made the connection that this was the woman that Dean had been speaking with several days earlier, he felt his stomach twist in a fit of worry and jealousy – a fretful reminder of one circumstance that he had quite forced himself to forget in the quiet proximity of the past few days. This Dean – Greg – of 2013 had another life, other friends, and other lovers and he no longer remembered Castiel. Even if remembrance would be forthcoming, those aspects would play a role – there was no guarantee that this Dean would still care for him in the way he had, or be convinced to leave behind what he had in this life to return to what had been so crudely cut short between him and Castiel six hundred years ago.

Dean didn’t even have the chance to speak when he raised the phone to his ear, for the second he did so, the playful voice rang out through the device. “Sup bitch, how’s it hangin’?”

As previously witnessed, the affection between the pair was obvious, and Castiel pointedly looked away from observing the conversation – both for himself, and as a method of convincing Dean that he could not hear what was passing between him and the woman speaking.

Dean seemed ignorant of Castiel, regardless, as he chortled into the device, and leaned his head back against the couch, grinning. “Hangin’ good, jerk. What about you?”

There was a sound of shuffling from the phone and a scrape, before the voice spoke again.

“Things are great here. I’m missing you at home though.”

“Yeah, me too. How’s college?”

The woman laughed, with an easy playfulness that Castiel couldn’t help but feel he would warm to, were it not directed so affectionately towards Dean. He turned further away from the conversation, so he was facing towards the door to the washroom, and returned to his usual occupation of staring at his hands although in the past week he had performed the task with such regularity there was nothing new to appraise there, and the exercise did nothing to drown out the sound of the conversation. Without conscious decision, Castiel found his eyes drifting back to Dean as he spoke, fascinated by the sudden easiness that took over him as he spoke to the woman.

“Easy. I’ve met some kids in my computer engineering class. We’ve been running some side operations to keep things interesting.”

Dean clicked his tongue in amusement, and shuffled again on the couch. “Everything above the board?”

She snorted on the other end of the line, and Dean smiled, before the answer was even forthcoming. “Nothing major, just a bit of fun. This guy, Ash - he likes hacking the computers of the assholes that frequent those jailbait sites. Wipes their stash and trashes their stuff. Considers himself the avenging Angel of the internet.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and leaned back into the couch, shifting so that only his shoulders were pressed against the back, and the rest of him slid forward lazily and languidly.

“He any good?”

“Taught _me_ a few tricks. Although for MIT most of these kids are dumbasses. We’ve got another friend, Kevin, he’s ok. Bit straight-laced, but if we put the pressure on he’ll help out with some stuff.”

“Glad to hear it’s going well.”

“Yeah, it’s great. And Gilda’s been visiting.”

Dean blinked a few times while the woman spoke, and looked to Castiel quickly (seemingly unperturbed that he was blatantly observing the conversation). Dean covered the base of the phone, and mouthed “this ok?”. Castiel nodded quickly and allowed Dean to turn back to his conversation.

When Dean laughed again, a second later, the realization arose as quickly as the jealousy, in the first instance. Dean’s comfortable posture, his playful tone and his casual jibes lea to one obvious conclusion - that there should be no concern about this woman at all. She was not a lover. She was _Sam_ , or who Sam had been to the Dean that Castiel had known in 1424. Perhaps the closeness was not the same, it couldn’t be the same – what was shared between Dean and Sam could only be shared between Dean and Sam.  But it was there, and evident – familial.

“Ah, Miss Gold Bikini herself?”

“You shouldn’t objectify my girlfriend, Dean.”

“Wo-ho-ho, when did this happen?” Dean leaned forward, pressing the phone to his ear, and grinning with a kind of ecstatic glee, that made the air around him almost crackle with expectation.

“The day after we spoke, actually.  She took me to see The Hobbit, and then she showed me the online portal for this Moondor thing she’s into... and then we made it official.”

“She sounds like your dream girl.”

There was a giggle on the end of the line.

“Oh she is, believe me. You’re not allowed to perve, when you meet her.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t!”

“Whatever.”

Dean threw a sidelong glance at Castiel, who nodded to indicate he was content to allow the conversation to continue. He made to leave the couch, to allow Dean the privacy he had not appropriately provided earlier. Dean apparently took his movement as an indication that he wished for the conversation to complete. He leaned forward at once, assuming a suddenly more dull tone.

“Hey, Charlie, can I call you back?”

There was a slight pause on the other end, but the response was even enough.

“Sure. Something happening?”

“Yeah, just... stuff is really hectic with the investigation. Now’s not a good time. Remember the tomb I told you about?”

“Yeah.”

Dean held up a hand at Castiel to stop him further proceeding to leave the room. He kept their eyes fixed as he quickly made an explanation to the voice on the phone:

“They’re excavating it today. I need to help out.”

“Sure, talk to you later bitch.”

“See ya, nerd.” Dean removed the phone from his ear and held it in front of him, pressing at a button which caused the staticky noise of the call to end.

“Sorry, Cas. I just needed to take that.”

“I had no problem with your having that conversation, Greg. I do not wish to interrupt your daily activities.”

“Aw, it’s nothing really. Just my sister.” He flipped his phone closed and slid it into the pocket of his breeches, grinning lightly.

Castiel stood awkwardly in the centre of the room, where Dean had asked him to wait. She curled his fingers up to touch the palms of his awkwardly hanging hands, before he licked his lips and responded.

“You have a sister?”

“Yep, she’s at MIT. Couldn’t be prouder.”

He leaned back against the couch, grinning, and placing both palms behind his head as he lay back. A beat passed, and Dean looked back to the couch that Castiel had vacated, before he returned to look at Castiel with a raised eyebrow. Castiel took the hint, and started back towards his seat, sitting down as he asked: “What is MIT?”

“It’s a college. Like where Keith and Jess are. It’s pretty fancy. Full of geniuses, like her.” He beamed at his own bragging, and Castiel reciprocated with a smile, which seemed to please Dean, for he blushed a little before looking away pointedly.

“She is very intelligent?”

 “Yeah. The smartest. Not like her older brother.”

Dean said the words perfunctorily, with no hint that there was anything but utter honesty behind them. Castiel leaned forward and titled his head as he watched Dean drop his palms from behind his head, scratching at his ear on the way down to where they placed themselves in the pockets of his breeches.

“I am sure that isn’t true.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched and he inclined his head towards Castiel across the room, looking away with a bashful expression, his eyes trailing the base of the couch upon which Castiel sat. He didn’t answer, however.

“Is she older or younger than you?”

Dean’s eyes flickered back to Castiel’s and he adjusted himself quickly, running one thumb down the side of his mouth. “Younger. Much younger. She’s 21. I was kind of... an accident. 12 years too early. My parents didn’t have kids for much longer after me. Her and...”

He paused at that, and opened his mouth to continue, shifting as though gearing for a different statement.

“You have another sibling?”

“No!” Dean’s whole head twitched to the side and away from Castiel, and he ran his thumb along his jaw this time, pressing his lips together. “No. Sorry. Just the one.”

Castiel paused and sniffed, watching Dean carefully, who stole a glance before looking away quickly when he realized he was being watched.

“I see. And you are very close with her?”

“Yeah, well... we look out for each other. She’s always been my kid sister, you know?”

“No.”

Dean squinted at Castiel before he dropped his head and nodded lightly. “Shit, sorry for that Cas. I forget that...”

He looked up to meet Castiel’s gaze and a moment passed between them, which swallowed whatever Dean intended to say. There was a beat within Dean, almost as if he’d been hit from the inside, such that his whole body curled in upon itself, simultaneously without moving at all. While Dean – _Greg_ – barely seemed to notice the throb, it was immediately obvious to Castiel, who started forward at once.

Dean merely squinted at Castiel quizzically again, before standing and shuffling across the room to sit next to him on the same couch, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his phone once again. He flipped it open and pushed a few buttons with a masterful kind of dexterity that Castiel had seen imitated in both Sam and Jessica (although Bobby was fairly child-like in his aptitude), until he brought up an image of a redheaded woman on the screen.

“Here, this is Charlie.”

The image was small and difficult to make out on the screen, particularly given Castiel’s overriding awareness of each small square emitting light that sought to make up the image. Nonetheless, he could discern the basic features of her face – the light smile, and the blunt shape of  portion of red hair shorn directly above her forehead, while the rest was left longer to curl lightly at her shoulders.

Dean grinned as he watched Castiel : “not much of a family resemblance, huh?”

There was very little, it was true, aside from the obvious fairness of her skin – the same as Dean’s own, although his was spotted with freckles where hers appeared to be more smooth in comparison. There was something in the shape of their eyes too - although hers were nowhere near Dean’s in illustrious coloring - that spoke to a familial connection.

“There is a little, although it is true she does not look particularly like you.”

“Yeah. She looks a little like my dad, but not much. My kind of ended up with a bunch of black sheep as kids.”

Dean pressed another button and the image on the screen changed to one of him and Charlie – both holding large glasses of a brightly colored beverage, his arm around her shoulder, and temples pressed together. She wore a strange kind of armor, and Dean had been adorned with some kind of garish crown, that sat jauntily on his head.

“That was at her birthday last year. Fantasy literature theme. ”

Castiel looked at the image for a little while, and let a small smile creep onto his features when he saw the flush of Dean’s cheeks in the image, and the way he smiled for whatever had recorded the image as though it were a personal friend – it was a face of happiness that Castiel had not been privy to on Greg’s features, although he recognized parts of Dean in it – the slight incline of his head, the tightlipped smile and the crinkled eyes. When he cast a glance back to Dean, he noted a hint of that same expression had crept back as he watched the image, as though it would move before him.

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning regarding the term ‘black sheep’.”

Dean looked up at Castiel, and then leaned back when he realized their close proximity. “Oh, I just mean we were all a bit different – never really looked much like one another.”

“All?”

Dean looked up at Castiel sharply, furrowing his brow and sucking his upper lip in on itself so that only the lower was visible.

“Hm?”

“You said all?”

“Uh...yes.... well, no. Look. Can we not talk about this right now?”

Dean flipped the phone shut and slid it back into his pocket quickly. When his gaze raised to meet Castiel’s, the stoniness of days earlier had returned with veracity and every small hint of Dean that had trickled through slowly was lost once again behind the unpolished and battered armour of _Greg_.

As Castiel appraised Dean, unblinking, Dean bit his lip fiercely and looked down.”Sorry Cas, that was rude, I-“

“There is no need to apologize, Greg. Perhaps we can proceed with something else for today?”

Dean paused for a few moments, before looking back at Castiel and flashing him a vague and cloudy smile. “Sure, Cas. What do you want to do?”

“More of your dvds... perhaps? If that is not too much trouble?”

Dean nodded curtly and made to stand up. “I’ll head down to the store, pick up some more. You ok for half an hour?”

“Of course.” Dean stared at Castiel for a moment, swallowing quickly, before departing abruptly and with slightly uneven steps for the door.

Castiel employed the wash room in Dean’s absence, motivated more by the comfort of the warm water than any other need – the group appeared to consider it necessary to wash everyday, though Castiel saw little efficacy in that. Perhaps his body was designed for the requirement less, but he had never taken offence at the smell of a human who had the opportunity to wash less. Dean had only washed every few days and Castiel had barely noticed the change in his scent. Clearly, however, in this more modern world, it was offensive to smell like one’s species – the others appeared to infinitely prefer spritzing themselves with a variety of artificially concentrated smells. Even Dean, although he was noticeably less adorned than the others, except Bobby .

Castiel had made enough of a note of the operation of the shower, that he was competent in turning it on and off and adjusting the temperature. He had also taken the time to read the small print on the bottles which explained their functions, although vaguely, as though their use was considered to be largely common-sensical. The vagueness meant Castiel was forced to decipher aspects of their functions for himself, but nonetheless, he left the shower feeling that he smelled sufficiently like the others that they ought to be placated.

He stood before the mirror, tracing the lines of the scars across his chest, still almost as prominent as they had been the day he was discovered and the day Dean had seen them. There were slight changes. Most noticeably, the droop in his face was slowly correcting itself, so that his right eye was realigning with the left, and the skin as less puckered. His wings were healing gradually too, with a softer down emerging below the rotting feathers and in the gaps where the fragile skin had been exposed to the dankness of the tomb, turning black and leathery as a result. His teeth had already re-emerged when he had left the tomb, but they had realigned slightly, returning to the straight line they had once been, and his inflamed gums were less swollen - they only glowed red at the edges to indicate their previous suffering. Similarly, his fingernails, which had also been restored prior, had adjusted slightly, shifting into their proper positions at the tips of his fingers, with the skin around them deflating and losing its angry sheen. Nonetheless, across his belly, back and legs, the gashes of the blade, the touch of acid and the bubbles of burns still remained. Castiel ran his hands over the wounds in irritation, noting that the pain was gone, but that the texture of his skin was still rough and dry – there was no indication of the moisture that marked the process of healing. He had thought, if he left his Grace the opportunity, it would take control of the circumstance and rectify the blemishes. It was timid and weak still, and shied away from his instruction. But he knew from the mouth of the cave that it anxiously awaited the opportunity to heal him. Had he not been practised in restraining it, it may have healed those cosmetic concerns then. So why was it so reluctant now?

True, he had in the past few days, abandoned the enterprise of healing himself. He had been distracted by the changing nature of Dean’s attitude from considering his physical being. It was only in brief reminders in a reflective surface that he remembered at all that part of harnessing Dean within Greg would be re-presenting himself to Dean as Castiel, rather than this mutilated visage of a shadow. But it was easy to forget, in the days past, when Dean’s eyes had begun to dance at him once again, and he’d seen the hint of openness and kindness directed towards him, that he had so repulsed Dean so in this form. Even the briefest hint of a smile, or a willingness to touch Castiel, had been enough to transport him back to the comfort of knowing Dean’s affection and the light, easy expectation that it would continue unheeded.

This morning, however, had been enough to remind Castiel that there was work to be done that remained, and despite the apparent lack of necessity to hurry the task, eventually the world that awaited the group would call, and Castiel would be left alone. He was aware that the group avoided carefully the subject of what was to be done with him, after their examination of the tomb ceased, and he finished his narrative. Clearly, they feared for his well-being if revealed to the world beyond, but were also so academically intrigued by his knowledge and divine nature that consideration of a reveal nonetheless was not incomprehensible. The time would come when the easy discussions they had, and the multitude of opportunities Castiel had with Dean would narrow enough that he would have exhausted his window, and Dean would be lost to Castiel forever, painfully just beyond reach.

So long as his Grace was inactive there were few options. Dean, while jarred by Castiel’s storytelling, remained stubbornly smothered by Greg, and was far off from making the realization on his own. Sam and Bobby were even further, and appeared undisturbed by mentions of their souls in times past, although Castiel remained certain they were within Mike and Keith too. If Dean could not realize on his own, then he would require divine intervention from Castiel. But to touch his soul, and remind him in his barest form of the intimacy of their acquaintance, would be by far one of the most dangerous exercises that Castiel could perform. Even fully powered, it was not worth the risk until his grace was once again perfectly mastered. But by current rate of progress, that could take months, or a year – far longer than Castiel believed he had to make such a communication.

What he required then, was to practise. To force his Grace from its hibernation and to compel it to full fitness. It was an extension of himself – the essence of his divinity – in the way a soul was to humans. It loved Dean as he did, and if threatened with his loss, it would surely respond with the necessary efficiency. It merely required his single-minded devotion and concentration, and for him to draw on his reserves completely. There could be no more casual recreation if he was to succeed. Still, that was tempered by a need to keep Dean close, and to maintain the easiness which had become to develop. When the time came, Dean would have to offer his consent to Castiel’s touch, and that would require his utter trust, perhaps even some form of love to properly effect.

He would proceed as before, then, with a greater focus upon use of his Grace. If he involved Dean in the exercise, perhaps that could further trust between them. In addition, he would continue to tell their story, and to provoke from Greg the older trust between Dean and himself, as well as Greg in his new form, in order to ensure complicity in what would soon be required.

He was jolted from his reverie by the sound of Dean arriving back at the motel. He shut the door loudly, careless of its increasing fragility, and called out into the living rom: “Cas?”

“One moment!” Castiel hurriedly pulled on another of Sam’s shirts that had been cut for him several days ago, and buttoned it quickly, before exiting the washroom and meeting Dean in the lounge, where he was setting up his laptop.

“We’re running out of good options from that store – it’s kind of a dump. So I’ve got you a few movies – they’re not necessarily accurate, but they’ve got enough stuff going on to keep things interesting for ya. All about big historical type stuff.”

He pointed to a few squares, labeled with such titles as “Gone With The Wind”, “Forrest Gump” and “Gladiator”. He waved another, thicker, square in front of Castiel, which was titled “the Lord of the Rings”.

“This one’s not really historical, but it’s a big-time classic and Charlie thought you might like it.”

“You spoke to Charlie about me?”

Dean raised his eyebrows and his jaw twitched: “Yeah. Well, kinda. I said I’d met this weirdo whose parents had raised him without a tv, and had been introducing him to the wonderful world of movies. She was outraged and gave me a list of stuff you totally have to watch.”

“Is television particularly important to humanity?”

Dean shifted beside him as he pressed the button on the laptop that allowed the compartment to slide out that housed the colored disks: “Yeah, well... it’s stories, you know? Universal kind of stuff. One of the oldest forms of entertainment, just in a kinda different format to what you’re used to. None of that Shakespeare stuff.”

“What is Shakespeare?”

Dean looked at him once, before snorting and lying back against the couch, palm covering his eyes: “Ah crap, now we’re gonna have to watch that too.”

He removed his palm and looked at Castiel, smiling. “So what’re you keen for?”

Castiel cast his eyes across the squares once or twice, before he leaned over and tapped the square still in Dean’s hand. “I would be interested in your sister’s recommendation.”

“Right on.” Dean grinned and leaned forward, popping the circle into the compartment and sliding it back into the laptop. He fiddled with the screen until the images took up its entirety and adjusted the sound of the music until it was loud enough to speak over, but discernible despite the vague hum of wagons outside.

“Alright, settle in, Cas. We’ve got a solid nine hours of this ahead of us.”

...

Castiel did pay some attention to the films. At first, he intended to merely feign interest, instead practising maneuvering his Grace by focusing on the curtains just beyond the laptop, attempting to make them move as though a gust of wind had touched them. However, Dean was enjoying himself, and his excited whoops and accidental nudges to Castiel’s person as he moved about in anticipation, occasionally turning to Castiel and nodding excitedly – “this bit, Cas” – forced him to attend at least some attention to the story. And Castiel found himself enjoying it too. Eventually, he was forced to rest, in any case, since his Grace refused to respond to his instructions. He allowed it a small break, in order to gain its complicity, before returning at the end of the second film to attempt once again.

Dean eventually fell asleep at some point during the third film, after he retrieved a few “beers” from the kitchen. He offered one to Castiel, who politely declined, before drinking three and dozing off, snoring lightly and he leaned back into the touch and let his chin drop onto his chest. After some time, Castiel reached over the pause the film, and the movement was enough to wake Dean, who started somewhat at Castiel’s close proximity, but smiled apologetically as Castiel jolted backwards in order to allow him his own space.

“Sorry, guess I fell asleep.”

“Yes.”

Their gazes held for a moment, before Dean looked away quickly to the frozen image on the screen.

“What did you do while I was out?”

Castiel pressed his lips together and looked away from Dean too, turning his gaze to the curtain above the screen once again, where it hung limp and unmoving, as it had for the previous five hours.

“I watched some of the film, and I endeavored to exercise my Grace.” He said the words as matter-of-factly as possible, in order that the conversation not seem forced or pre-meditated. As intended, the unfamiliar words had the effect of provoking Dean’s interest, and he shuffled upwards, blinking a few times to dislodge the sheen of sleep from his eyes.

“Your what?”

“My Grace. It is the equivalent of your human soul. It is a touch of divinity.”

Dean paused in his adjusting beside Castiel, and almost immediately his relaxed state became alert, and he straightened. He cleared his throat and swallowed quickly, and when he spoke his next words were a little shaky, and somewhat hushed, disbelieving: “You don’t have a soul?”

“No. I do not.”

Dean stopped breathing for a moment, before he opened his mouth to speak again. There was a wet sound from his mouth as his lips opened and his tongue prepared to utter words he clearly had trouble preparing.

“How can that...?”

Castiel turned and met Dean’s gaze carefully.

“Are you concerned by that?”

Dean’s mouth dropped open in a small “o” as his eyes flickered in miniscule darts, absorbing Castiel’s implication through whatever expression had leaked through his speech and onto his face. Whatever he found, it appeared insufficient, for his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, although their intensity strengthened as he looked upon Castiel: “Should I be?”

“What does the word soul mean to you?”

Dean closed his mouth around whatever answer had first come to mind, and the muscle that had been so active inside his cheek in the days previously activated once again, pulsing as he stared down Castiel. “I guess... religious people think of it as like... it’s like the immortal part of you. The part that goes to Heaven or... Hell. Some people think you come back in different bodies, but the same soul.”

“That is where you are mistaken, Greg. A soul is bound to one body and its components. But it does survive it. Then it resides in Heaven, or Hell, depending upon the path of judgment.”

“So you don’t have one?”

Castiel shook his head again, and Dean stiffened beside him to the point where he became heavier on the couch, and sunk into it slowly. The leather squeaked as it adjusted itself around him and his new alert state.

“A soul can only exist apart from a body in Heaven or Hell, unless it becomes an earthbound spirit. And it is bound to its body until it terminates. I am restricted by no such laws.”

“You’re in a body right now.”

“Yes.”

Dean surveyed Castiel’s form momentarily, dragging his eyes across his chest and along the shape of his wing before returning his gaze to Castiel’s eyes.

“So you could leave that body, at any time?”

“Once I have conscious control of my Grace, I believe so. The fact that you have not encountered my brothers and sisters suggests to me that the gates to heaven are open again, and therefore, in theory, I should be able to depart this body.”

Dean nodded, although there was clear incomprehension in his features, as he returned to absorbing Castiel’s form with a kind of scientific investigativeness.

“What would... happen to it, if you left?”

“It’s a vessel, just as yours is. It would cease to operate, and decay like any other.”

Dean swallowed more vigorously, and his spine shivered so that he was forced to twist his neck to suppress it.

“So... this,” he gestured vaguely at Castiel’s wings and face, “this isn’t you?”

Castiel looked to Dean and met his eyes carefully. “No. My true form would be impossible for you to look upon, I believe.”

“You believe?”

“There are some special humans empowered with the gift, but they are incredibly rare. For any of those not so empowered, to look upon my true visage would burn out their eyes and, if they gazed too long, the rest of their bodies too.”

Dean’s mouth fell open again and he let his eyes roam across Castiel’s body more obviously, raising one eyebrow in a mixture of horror and utter fascination.

“What do you really look like?”

“I am not sure how I would best explain it to you. It is nothing like your realm of experience.”

Dean’s eyes ceased their exploration to meet Castiel’s once again.

“Yeah, but... give me a vague idea?”

Castiel looked blankly down his arm and twisted his hand in front of him.

“I am a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, and as such I exist across several dimensions at once, when not contained within a vessel, as I am now. My form, I would estimate, if roughly several hundred times the size of this form. I am made of the Lord’s light, and my form changes as I need, although I find it comfortably settles as a winged, five headed creature, one of which is that of an eagle.”

Dean withdrew slightly as Castiel described himself, breathing harshly and curling his hands unconsciously into fists. His eyes took to witnessing Castiel again, perhaps this time more afraid to look into his face than curious as to his physical appearance.

“I am sorry, I have distressed you.”

“No. No no no. This is just… a lot to wake up to” Dean looked up again, although Castiel noted he kept his gaze upon his forehead rather than meeting him in the eyes. “I mean, yeah, you’re freaking me out a bit. But I’m not upset. It’s just... weird.”

He ran his hand through his hair a few times before letting the palm run down the side of his face and leaning on it, continuing to stare above Castiel’s eyes.

“You mean my appearance?”

Dean breathed out slowly and let his jaw slide side to side, releasing the tension there with an audible but blank sounding click.

“It’s just... it’s hard to think of you not like... this, you know? This is Cas. You’re Cas.”

“This is merely a vessel, Greg. For your protection. My true self is my Grace – God’s touch.”

Dean face dropped suddenly and his eyes fell from Castiel’s forehead to his hands. He turned away and stared at them for a few moments, before he leaned forward on his elbows and let his spine curl in a hunch. When he spoke his voice was smaller and humbler, somehow, and breathy with nervousness.

“What... what do you possibly want with us Cas?”

Castiel started, as he watched Dean deflate before him, his eyes rushing side to side across the width of the couch, running occasionally across Castiel’s knees as they passed from one end of the room to the other.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean... you’re an Angel. You’re... you’re God’s. And we’re just... humans, messing around down here. I mean, most of us don’t even believe in God and...”

His eyes flickered up momentarily to meet Castiel’s, before he flinched, as though he imagined a reprimand, and let them drop again. “What can we possibly offer you? Castiel. Freaking Angel of Thursday. Here in this shithole motel. I can’t even-“

“You need not offer me any more than you have already, Greg. I am here to speak with you. To know more of you, and to tell you of my story.”

“Why?”

“That will be revealed soon enough. It is not of import at this time. I do not wish you to think that this understanding will change the way in which we have begun to interact.”

Dean breathed out quickly and looked to Castiel’s shoulder, his lip trembling slightly.

“How’s that?”

“We are friends, are we not Greg?”

Dean took several attempts to make his answer, before he mumbled out a quick “yes” and dropped his gaze.

“Then I wish you to treat me as a friend, if you will.”

“You’re an _Angel_.”

“And you are a human, and in case you have missed the direction in which my narrative is headed, you are aware I treasure your kind.”

“I’m not Dean.”

Castiel froze minutely, and inched forward towards Dean, extending a hand uncertainly.

“What?”

Dean swallowed and breathed unsteadily. “The guy you were in love with... I’m not like him. I mean, he was... he was pretty awesome, Cas. All that swordfighting and man of the people shit. I’m... I’m not like that. I’m a waste... I’m not the same.”

“You do not have to be the same for me to be your friend, Greg. My father created you to be unique.”

Dean looked at Castiel once , before shaking his head vigorously.

“Yeah, but... it’s one thing for you to talk to a guy like that but... I’m just me. I’ve been a loner all my life, I don’t have friends, I don’t do anything worth doing. I drink... I... I sleep around. I’m not very smart, I... It’s a waste of time talking to me, Cas. I mean... there are people like... I don’t know, President Obama walking around, and … the Pope. You know, those are the kind of people you should talk to. They do stuff that’s worth somethin’. I just... I’m nothing.”

“Greg, stop.”

Dean had already wound down his speech in any case, so the words were somewhat redundant, but nonetheless Dean obliged by carefully closing his mouth and looking deferentially to Castiel’s feet.

“You saved my life, Greg.”

Dean shook his head lightly and kneaded his fists against his thighs. If he tried to speak, the sound was entirely indiscernible, even to Castiel’s ears.

“I would have lived forever in that tomb, with no human solace and nothing but my memories there to accompany me. I assure you, you are worth my attention.”

“It was just a thermal imaging sensory instrument, Cas. I did nothing. Someone else invented it, someone more...”

“Greg.” Castiel carefully laid his hand upon Dean’s shoulder, keeping the touch as light as possible so not to startle him and let his thumb rub slowly and carefully across the bone that protruded at its edge.

“It is I who decides who is worth my friendship, Greg. I have chosen you.”

Dean let out a shaky breath beneath Castiel’s touch. “You haven’t even spoken to anyone outside this room.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Dean breathed slowly again and relaxed slightly under Castiel’s touch, although he did not make any move to acknowledge Castiel’s position.

“Greg, look at me.”

Dean carefully raised his gaze, although his eyes retreated to their safe harbour at Castiel’s forehead. Castiel tightened his grip slightly on Dean’s shoulder and spoke carefully, low and rumbling: “In the eyes.”

Dean lowered his gaze millimeter by millimeter, trailing down Castiel’s forehead and to the bridge of his nose, before, spreading to look straight into Castiel’s own eyes.

“Thank you.”

Dean pressed his lips together, but was bold enough to keep his eyes on Castiel’s. He sighed for a moment, accepting his fate, before murmuring out: “What do you want from me?”

Dean’s words haunted the room somehow, even though his voice was barely a whisper, while Castiel managed to retain his rough baritone, despite his own growing nervousness at Dean’s deference.

“I merely want to know who you are. What you do. What you enjoy and cherish. What you despise. Everything a friend would know. I just wish to be your friend, and have your trust.”

“That all?” Dean chuckled a little at his own words and Castiel dropped his hand from his shoulder.

“In your own time.”

...

Dean’s own time was that afternoon. He burst open like a waterfall for Castiel, whether in fear or in desperation to be recognized by him. Castiel couldn’t help but feel strange at seeing someone so like Dean in some ways, express such a distinct existence  - there was only a little of Dean in the conversation.

Greg was gruffer than Dean, and more pessimistic. He was lethargic in some sense, although better educated and perhaps even quicker witted than Dean had been. He had a similar sense of hum our, although his was wearied with more years than Dean’s had been.  There was grimness too, unfamiliar. He was far less confident, and took far longer to process Castiel’s interest in him than Dean had, making multiple references back to their earlier conversation, and Castiel’s status as an Angel. Dean had accepted him and his affection for what it was for the most part – once he had overcome that barrier with Dean, Dean had given himself to him without question, and expected the same in return. But Greg was different, far more deferential in his favors and what he volunteered. He was less curious to ask Castiel questions, but more curious at the same time – for he appeared to be far more conscious of the enormity of Castiel’s being than Dean had been, and his own perceived insignificance.

Castiel learned that Greg had grown up largely as an only child, as Greg Bradbury in a household of two loving parents. At age eleven, his parents had welcomed his sister – Charlotte – to their home, and two years later, a second daughter – Christina – who Greg said, like Charlie, refused her Christian name and insisted she become Krissy from the age of five.

He insisted the first part of his life was insignificant. He attended school, where he was passable academically, and while blessed with some athleticism, was unable to penetrate the tight social circles that surrounded the school’s organized sports teams. He had very few friends, he insisted, if any, and spent much of his time with the school’s female population, peddling his natural mystery as a selling point.

When he was seventeen, he left home to attend University, where he studied physics, math and geology in order to obtain his qualification as a geophysicist. He stated he had never been certain why he attended his courses, other than he followed an attractive blonde in geology on the first few weeks, and stayed out of – it wasn’t interest, exactly – but a kind of base fascination. It was the only subject he’d ever truly excelled at, he said.

He was one year short of graduation age 20. Two months later, both his parents were killed in a house fire. His sisters were only 9 and 7, respectively, and – without any other relatives to regard them – Dean was forced to return home and care for his sisters. He worked two jobs and solicited the assistance of a neighbor to watch the girls when he could. He bartended in the evenings and assisted a building crew during the day. For a year, he had the assistance of a girlfriend – Lisa Braeden – in caring for his sisters, but after Lisa fell pregnant and miscarried, the relationship had suffered irreparably and she moved out, leaving Greg on his own, only with the occasional babysitting assistance of his best friend from the bar – a man named Benny LaFitte.

When Charlie was 16 and Krissy was 14, another tragedy struck. While Dean was driving her home from a friend’s birthday, they were struck on the passenger side by a drunk driver and she was killed upon impact. Greg was treated in hospital for several injuries, forcing him out of work for several months.

At age 17, Charlie was offered a full scholarship to MIT, which she accepted and Greg was left on his own. With the money he had saved for Charlie and Krissy’s educations he was able to return to school and complete his degree, finding ad hoc employment where he could.

Last year, Benny, Dean’s one friend, had been diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus and passed away after only six months’ illness. Dean had left the country upon the urging of his sister, as an attempt to find respite, but had found employment with the group working in the castle where he had found Castiel, and had since stayed on to assist with the project. He had missed Krissy’s birthday which had been the reason for Charlie’s phone call, which Castiel had heard on the balcony – she had reprimanded him after he had, as well as ordering flowers, sent over a wrapped birthday present for Krissy. It was his tradition, he said, to buy Krissy a gift, and after he visited her grave, whatever it was would always end up donated to GoodWill. Krissy wasn’t really a flowers kind of girl, he said. She was one of those girls with toy swords and police sets and walkie talkies. They’d often played secret agent in the garden when she was a child.

Castiel found himself sliding closer to Greg throughout the explanation of his upbringing and slowly reaching forwards, until he found himself holding Greg’s hand, as he had done for Castiel only days before, and squeezing tightly as Greg battled his way through the story, fighting back tears and observing grimly: “I mean… if I were a movie character, people would say my tragic past was absurd, you know?”. When he was finished, Castiel let him stay silent until Greg leaned forward and Castiel unthinkingly let his wing slide between his back and the chair, wrapping the tip gently around his shoulder. Greg started, and stared at where the feathers curled around him.

“I... my apologies.” Castiel made to withdraw the wing as soon as he realised Greg had not expected it. Greg only reached forward to squeeze his hand tighter though, and leaned into the curl of the wing, so that his arm was pressed against Castiel’s.

“No, it’s ok. It’s warm.”

It wasn’t an explanation for maintaining the position, but nonetheless Castiel followed the instruction, allowing the wing to curl around Greg for the remainder of the afternoon, until he went back to sleep, leaning half against Castiel and half against the couch. Castiel watched him sleep for a while, marveling at the equivocational mixture of Greg and Dean shared between the one body, that was both so familiar and so foreign at the same time. But at some point, he could look no longer and he turned to stare blankly at the wall before him, while Greg nestled closer against his wing.

The afternoon had been strange, for it was the first time since Castiel’s arrival in this modern circumstance, that he felt that Dean had not been present for the exchange. And further to that, the first time in which Castiel had spent several hours not occupied with thoughts of Dean, or his objective at all. Rather, this afternoon with Greg - the man who bore the face of Castiel’s lover, and it seemed, part of his soul - Castiel had allowed the man personage, and invited him into his own space and mind as an individual. Moreover, Castiel had borne the enormity of what Greg had shared, and his physical proximity, for what he realized was Greg’s sake, and not Dean’s.

Yet, there was no duplicity or sense of betrayal in granting to Greg the comfort and companionship he obviously needed. He was not Dean, certainly, but he was part of him in a way that Castiel did not yet properly understand. And to offer him comfort, solace and easiness in a life that had been tempered by the unfathomable was tantamount to providing that to Dean, and soothing whatever wounds had brought him to the mouth of Castiel’s tomb.

Still, a concern rang in Castiel’s mind with stubborn omnipresence that there was only so much he could afford Greg. Dean had returned for Castiel, Castiel had lived for Dean, and Dean had his heart. Greg was a visage, an extension, and a life support mechanism – a crutch that Dean’s soul was using, however he was managing it, to be present in this new reality. Castiel never doubted it, even without his grace yet ready to look upon Dean’s true face. He had seen that face, he had known it intimately, and that face had been branded into his being. And with Greg, curling into the shape of his wing, he felt it there between the fleshy barrier – a call and a plea of deliverance, and the cry for return.

What Greg was, or indeed Dean was, at this stage, Castiel did not know. While he entertained theories of what could possibly have been done to restore Dean to him, there were none that were forthcoming with the little information that he had at his disposal. Greg was enigmatic, unpredictable and distant, even in friendship, and no matter what Castiel had discerned, it was almost as if Greg was consciously holding back whatever piece of the puzzle that Castiel required to discern the true nature of things, and to re-establish their order.

But the concern remained that if Dean were to return, that Greg would be forfeit for his sake. He might be made subordinate, or cast aside, or destroyed entirely – without knowing his construction Castiel could not fathom his destruction. If Greg and Dean were somehow one and the same, despite their differences, then perhaps there was no cruelty in requiring that Dean be brought to the forefront and allowing for his deliverance. If he was the life force behind this body, and beneath this mutation of Dean’s soul, then did he have true ownership?

The fact that Dean was were, and that Greg had overcome his discomfort with Castiel suggested that perhaps he would be a willing sacrifice at some point, if necessary and if the time ever came. And while Greg was his friend, Castiel knew, if that were the promise that he and Dean shared (as one being or as two), then Castiel could not determine it – that was their path of free will.

Nonetheless, and whatever the case, as Castiel stole one glance at Greg beside him once more, he could feel there was an unmistakable contentment beneath Greg’s skin as he slowly shifted to nuzzle lightly at Castiel’s shoulder. Wherever Dean was, and whatever his intentions, there was no conflict in his sleeping form. And for now, Castiel considered, as he allowed his wing to wrap tighter around Greg, it was enough that whatever he could give to Greg, he could give to Dean also, and they could share it in common.

...

The group arrived later than usual, and Sam and Jessica were very quiet when they entered the room to check on Castiel. Anticipating their arrival, and extrapolating from their slightly strange attitudes that morning, Castiel dislodged his wing from behind Greg before they arrived, and moved himself to the other couch. When Sam saw Greg sleeping, he nodded lightly and signaled to Jessica’s room, retreating to his only for a moment to retrieve some fresh clothes and a few other necessaries. While he was doing so, Jessica fished around in her pocket and extracted a small parcel wrapped in soft, white paper that floated as Castiel unwrapped it quickly.

“I polished it off a little with the tissue – it was so grimy. I hope you don’t mind.” She kept her voice a very low and careful whisper, nonetheless Greg stirred lightly on the couch.

Castiel let his eyes raise to hers and he nodded once in thanks. She smiled and looked back at the amulet on the tissue paper, absorbing its contents quickly and smiling sadly as she watched Castiel fold the paper back up.

“We won’t be late tomorrow night, Cas, I promise.”

He smiled at her, and nodded lightly, touching her lightly on the arm, before whispering: “Goodnight, Jessica.”

As Sam made his way back through to the room she corrected herself, and he nodded to Castiel once as they departed. “Night”.

They flicked off the light as they passed it, and closed the door as soft as a whisper, before creeping back to their room. In the silence, every movement in Jessica’s room was discernible, and while Castiel noted he heard the creak of two separate beds, as they settled down to sleep, he was satisfied to hear the sound of whispered goodnights, a questioning whisper of “Jess?” from Sam, and then the unmistakable sound of a soft, light kiss being exchanged and nervous, held breaths, before they padded in opposite directions. Castiel smiled to himself fondly as he heard both of them settle, hearts still beating nervously on the other side of the wall, and resolved to make no mention of it to the pair of them, or even to Greg, the next morning. He was glad though, and he allowed himself to revel in the satisfaction for a moment, of such a lovely pairing well made. Across the room, Greg snored once, and fell further down the couch until he was sleeping in it as a bed, burrowing into the soft material. Castiel extracted a blanket from Sam’s room one again, and laid it across his sleeping person, holding his breath so as not to disturb Greg, before returning to his own side of the room and sitting to commence his watch, mind whirling with the strangeness of the man before him.

...

Greg woke sometime around midnight and looked around the room confusedly for several minutes until the thrum of his mind quelled and he registered Castiel’s silhouette against the wall.

“Cas?”

“I’m here, Greg. You fell asleep.”

“Aw shit... Keith asleep?”

Castiel turned from where he had been contemplating the moon outside to look at Greg in the darkness, as he straightened up and pulled off the blanket over his shoulders.

“He is in Jessica’s room.”

Greg snorted at that. “Yeah, I bet he is.”

He rose slowly and stumbled across the room to Castiel, clearly still struggling to adjust his eyes to the darkness. When he reached the windowsill, he pressed his nose against the glass and looked up at the moon, mouth slightly open so that his breath left light trails of fog on the surface.

Eventually he turned back, to squint at Castiel in the darkness: “You not sleeping tonight?”

“No. I rarely sleep.”

“You did when you first came here.”

Castiel turned to lean against the wall, watching the moonlight reflect off Greg’s features. It wasn’t the same as watching it on Dean’s face – the light illuminated the wrinkles that had not been there before, just emerging at the corner of his eyes and across his forehead. Even under the clear moonlight, the beams failed to illuminate the shadows under Dean’s eyes, which remained as stubborn heavy bags that dragged his face into a distorted expression of pallor.

“I have been examining this.”

Castiel held out the amulet in his hand, which he had continued polishing with the tissue after Jessica had left. The grime had long since marked the bronze in a way that was likely impossible to remedy, but its basic shape was still evident, and it thrummed with Dean’s energy, even so long after being worn by him.

“What’s this?”

Greg took it from his hands without much ceremony, and turned it over under the moonlight. His fingers ran over the grooves, trying to discern its shape and markings. “Wait, Cas, is this-?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Castiel barely flinched at the name, instead moving closer to Greg so that he too was bathed in the moonlight – an indiscernible warmth running over his skin and making the hairs rise as his skin was illuminated by the blue tinge.

“I would like you to have it.”

Greg froze in his examination, and his fingers startled so violently that they nearly dropped the bronze to the ground.

“Cas. Oh God, no. No way.”

“I insist.”

“Jesus, Cas. This was _his._ ”

Greg looked up to Castiel, eyes wide in horror, and trembling with incredulity. Castiel only raised his eyebrows mildly, and watched Greg carefully. “Do you mean Sam’s or Dean’s?”

“Both. How did you get it?”

“Dean gave it to me.” He reached forward and ran his fingers lightly over the horns of the amulet, so close to Greg’s that he could almost feel the contact, even though it never occurred. Greg breathed out in a rush as he did so, and beside him, Castiel could feel a tremble begin at Greg’s extremities and reverberate quickly through to his core.

“Cas, there’s no way in Hell I can accept this.”

“Why not?”

“This is all you have of him now.”

Greg’s face commenced quivering at once and his lip spluttered as he attempted to press the amulet back to Castiel’s hands. Castiel merely folded his arms across and refused to allow it to touch him. Greg pressed more intently, but Castiel merely withdrew from the light of the window. Their eyes stayed on each other as Greg pleadd silently with him to accept the return, but Castiel merely stared lightly back, though beneath his nonchalance his entire body screamed _Dean Dean Dean Dean_.

“No. I can’t take it.”

“You are physically able to. And I will not accept a return.”

“Cas, this belongs to the love of your life.”

Castiel paused for a moment, licking his lips and preparing himself for the statement he followed Dean’s words with:

“And he is dead now. He can no longer own it. It is mine and I can dispose of it as I will.”

Greg’s face screwed up, and he attempted to push the amulet back to Castiel once more.

“It’s all you have.”

“I have my memories. They are worth more.”

Greg pressed his lips together and stepped forward to follow Castiel into the darkness. Castiel only stepped back further, folding his wings backwards carefully after one pushed against the curtain and dragged it further with him.

“Why do you even want to give it to me?”

There was a discrepancy between the answer he could give and the truth, Castiel knew. He gave it to Dean, in hope, like everything else, it might stir him to energy and return him to Castiel. To give back to him what was his, and show him that Castiel had kept it, and the promise it embodied, safe for him in their separation. He gave it to Greg as a token of the friendship he offered, the trust he wished between them, and the indication that he recognized that Greg was now as much of Dean as Dean was, and if Dean were returned to him, that Greg would attend too and he would require the same love that Castiel was willing to bestow to Dean.

“I rescued Dean, so he gave it to me. I give it to you after you saved me from the tomb. Dean would wish it, he would be glad of what you did. He would want to show his appreciation with whatever he could provide. This is what I have of value to give you.”

“You don’t need to give me this. It’s too much.”

“It is what I have to give.”

“ _Cas_.”

Greg pressed forward, at once occupying Castiel’s space in a way he had never before previously, pressing both his hands against Castiel’s chest and pushing the amulet against him. He leaned forward, so that his forehead was almost touching Castiel’s, and when he spoke, his words where whispers that dispersed across Castiel’s face in light curls of warmth.

“Please don’t give this to me.”

“It’s yours.”

“ _Please_.”

Greg shook his head, his nose brushing the tip of Castiel’s and his breath ghosting across his lips. “I can’t.”

“You will.”

Greg inhaled quickly, almost choking on the breath as he swallowed it. Castiel enclosed his hands around Greg’s and pushed them off his chest, keeping his palms tight around the amulet.

“You’ve already accepted it.” Once, he thought, you accepted my love once. Accept it again. _Remember_. “It’s yours now. Go back to sleep.”

Greg’s hands curled tighter around the amulet and he stepped back abruptly, breathing out harshly, as though he had been holding his breath, and not inhaling softly and quickly directly in Castiel’s face.

“Go to sleep, Greg.”

Greg swallowed audibly across the room and nodded lightly, before stalking over quickly to the couch and placing the amulet carefully on the table beside him. Even in the darkness, Castiel knew Greg’s eyes were on him, but he merely turned and seated himself on the couch opposite as Greg lay himself down and curl under the blanket on the couch.

“I don’t remember Dean giving this to you in the story.”

“That’s because he hadn’t yet. Go to sleep, Greg.”

Greg didn’t register the answer, or at least gave no show of it, and instead waited there, eyes wide and watching Castiel carefully, who reciprocated the gaze with a careful blankness. Eventually, Greg’s eyes began to close and he nestled closer to the pillow he used. As his breaths evened out and grew deeper, there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth and in the last moment before he fell asleep, Castiel saw a flash of it, and it at once sent his whole body alight – a tiny hint of _Dean’s smile_.

 

 


	16. On The Smog

** CHAPTER FIFTEEN **

** 2013 **

Greg was carefully silent the next morning and he spent the day equally quietly beside Castiel, allowing him to make his way through the remaining assortment of films. His one concession to the night previously was that the amulet was evidently present, and Greg twirled it mindlessly between his fingers for much of the morning. In the afternoon he excused himself for a few hours, in order to retrieve groceries for the group, since Sam’s fridge had become dangerously understocked in their time attending to the tomb. He returned in the late afternoon, laden with bags which Castiel attempted to assist him unpack, although being unsure of the content of many of their foods, or their necessary location. After that point, it was not evident where Greg kept the amulet, except that it was on his person, for he continued to smile at Castiel in a reassuring way suggesting that it was under safekeeping.

The group returned before darkness fell, to Greg preparing a meal for them. They were sweaty and grimy, and barrelled as quickly as they could to their various washrooms. When they returned, they chattered over the meals Greg had laid out, and discussed terminologies which Castiel did not understand concerning what they had uncovered in the tomb. Greg seemed similarly lost, and threw Castiel a few smiles across the table as the others joked and made merry. When the meal was complete, Sam took the plates and cleaned them for the group while the others settled themselves on the couches preparing for Castiel’s speaking.

Greg seated himself beside Castiel without ceremony, and they both noted with a smile and a quick look towards one another that Jessica preserved a seat beside her for Sam who, when he took it, did not hesitate to take her hand also. When Greg licked his lips and pursed his mouth through a smile, Sam met his gaze steadily, with only a generalised kind of smile, and Jessica blushed under the attention.

Eventually, their abstract chatter came to a natural end and all four of the turned towards Castiel, anxious to hear the continuation.

“So Cas, surely what you said to Dean was enough to let him know what you felt?”

Castiel shook his head lightly and gave Greg a sidelong glance before continuing: “it was the impetus, though, I believe.” Greg didn’t acknowledge the glance, but Castiel put that down to his distraction watching the way Sam ran his thumb carefully over the back of Jessica’s hand, an improperly hidden smile across his face to the point it was almost split in two with a contented, albeit distanced kind of pride.

...

** 1425 **

Dean returned to Ardus the next day, assuring Castiel he would revisit the forest in a week for a fortnight, with the approval of Adrus’ Lord Protector. Castiel spent the week setting up cave sanctuaries to the east of Ardus, in its immediate vicinity, unwilling to go for too far beyond the city to miss Dean’s exit from the Gates. He spent the final night in the same tree he had waited in the first time Dean left Ardus, rather than his poky makeshift shelter, perched on its branches and observing the Wall’s monitors trekking around its vicinity, checking for aerial threats and noting the state of the City’s sigils.

Dean did not emerge at dawn the next day, as promised, nor in the morning. In fact, it wasn’t until midday afternoon that Dean emerged from the City, casually trotting atop Impala with a large rucksack hanging from his back and another strapped to the mare’s side. Castiel dropped slowly from the tree, climbing down through the branches and weaving through its prickly nettles, and slowly following Dean along the Road, until it veered out of sight of the City at which point Dean steered Impala to the tree line and he met Castiel there with a grin and a wave: “Hey Cas.”

...

When Dean had initially returned to the City, he explained, things had gone smoothly and as planned. He met with Samuel Campbell first thing, and discussed the practicalities of his mission to the North to set up sanctuaries. He was awarded an inventory of items to deliver, and an estimation of the items to be allocated to each plotted safehouse.

“If there is anything else you think necessary, be sure to carry it out and furnish me with the details. We can encourage the others to follow suit when they visit the sites.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect that when you have completed, we will be required to discuss how we expect to maintain the stores in the sanctuaries. I anticipate that we will have to renew the stores regularly. Whether this task is delegated to you or another remains to be seen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Samuel leaned forward and rolled up a scroll with which he had made notes, handing it Dean, who tucked it under his arm and nodded abruptly.

“I would prefer this task were delegated to another, since I would wish to retain your leadership on the Road if at all possible. But we can discuss these matters once the sanctuaries are set up and properly mapped.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Samuel nodded curtly and moved out from behind his table, and passing Dean as he made to exit the room, brushing lightly past Dean’s shoulder as he did so.

“I will see you when you return, Slayer.”

He pushed through the heavy ornate door and through to the palace’s corridor beyond. Dean waited until his footsteps had faded, enough that it was polite to follow, and proceeded to leave. He turned immediately down the corridor and commenced a slow walk to his next appointment –a  drop in on Ruby and Sam before he returned home to pack sufficiently for his visit with Castiel. As he reached the end of the corridor, and moved to turn, he heard a call down the empty space.

“Slayer!”

Dean turned slowly in response, in time to see, at the end of the corridor and dressed in her customary red with a matching perfect, inhuman grin,  the Princess, accompanied by Lydia and Sarah. The grin widened when Dean acknowledged her call, and she walked down the corridor briskly, although with a smoothness that spoke to her training as a member of the royal family. When she arrived in his presence, Dean dropped awkwardly to a bow. He was ceased halfway in his descent by Lilith’s meek “please”.

When he raised his gaze, she smiled at him beatifically.

“I have not seen you in some time, Slayer.”

“I have been very busy on the Road, my Princess.”

“Indeed, I have heard tales of your bravery.”

Lydia gave a small smile of greeting over her Princess’ shoulder, and Sarah replicated it, although with less familiarity than Lydia. He reciprocated both minutely, although keeping his gaze upon Lilith.

“I had hoped we would have had the chance to speak of your duties at the wedding.”

“Pardon, my Princess?”

Lilith smiled wider and stepped forward, dropping her gaze so it rested at Dean’s Slayer’s mark at the centre of his shirt, before bringing her eyes up to his face slowly, as though they had been stuck by the mark.

“I had hoped you would ask me to dance with you. I was utterly abandoned at the high table.”

“I apologise, my Princess. I had not intended to slight you.”

“Oh, but you did. I was most disappointed.”

Dean bowed slowly again, and hung his head beneath Lilith’s gaze. “I could regret nothing more than I do that, my Princess.”

When he raised, Lydia was eyeing Dean meaningfully over Lilith’s shoulder, arching one eyebrow and blinking slowly. “I hope you will make it up to me, Slayer.”

“Whenever you choose, Princess.”

“I look forward to that occasion.”

When a beat paused between them, Dean bowed again. He heard the light trill of Lilith’s laughter as she witnessed him in his failure to adhere to appropriate palace standards of address (although he was uncertain as to the correct one, only knowing he was behaving incompetently). A moment later though, he heard the sounds of her swift footsteps down the corridor as she lead her ladies in waiting away, and their cheerful chatter echoing through the halls. By the time he raised himself from his bow, they were halfway down the corridor.

...

Dean tried, for the duration of the week, not to think about what Castiel had said. It was difficult not to – its substance in itself was astonishing, and left implications that Dean was not sure he would be capable of processing. But even more was the clear sincerity – Dean could not dismiss what he had said as the words of a man too starved for human companionship, who misunderstood what he spoke. Castiel was more than a man – he’d live through enough to know the truth of things. He was certain in what he knew, and Dean was certain of that. But to cope with it – the declaration that it entailed – that was another thing. And so he did not cope, and chose to dismiss the thought of it.

The week in the City passed quickly, and Dean visited three times with Ruby and Sam, when he wasn’t training with his men. Ruby seemed alight with the anticipation of the birth, although she continued to groan that Sam was poor at updating her with the Palace’s goings on. Dean’s offering from Garth and Jo’s wedding was hardly enough to sate her curiosity – when she asked after the dress, he could only remember enough to reply: “white... or cream maybe? And it had these pearl things around the neck. And a long thing trailing behind it.” She pronounced affectionately that both Dean and her husband were both uncultured heathens, but Sam merely laughed and kissed her forehead, before turning to Dean and stating, with an apologetic smile, that Ruby was likely hungry (again) and shouldn’t be taken as herself. Dean nodded with a disbelieving smile, although he was quick to leave soon after in any case.

It wasn’t until early morning of the day he was due to leave for the forest that things became complicated. He’d abandoned his plan to leave at dawn, sparing Bobby the early wake up partially out of compassion, and partially out of his desire to enjoy his comfortable bed for a little while longer, knowing that regardless of where he and Cas would be sleeping in the coming fortnight - whether on the forest floor or in his cabin - it would be an uncomfortable venture in any case.

So Dean waited until the sun had risen properly, and ate leisurely, savoring the luxuries that the inner city afforded which Cas couldn’t provide – less game meat, and more tender treatments, and proper mulled mead. Then he ambled to the stables and saddled Impala himself, leaving Chuck to his other duties of mucking out stalls and tending to other riders’ leather utensils.

It was mid-morning when he escorted Impala down to the Gate, and requested one of the boys guarding there to send him Bobby in order to approve his exit from the City. The boy had barely departed on his mission, however, when a light trill rang across the square that had Dean’s head snapping up and turning with the speed that signaled his lack of expectation.

“Slayer!”At the familiar tone of the call, Dean immediately dropped to a poorly practiced bow, cursing himself his lack of skill and swearing (most definitely in secret, away from Sam) to himself to acquire the skill later. “My Princess.”

Lilith advanced quickly, flanked by Jo, Lydia, Sarah and Bela, who held their hands demurely at their centers (Jo with a little less grace than the rest, at the back right corner of the arrowhead formation that they formed).  An exhilarated grin erupted across her face as she approached, stopping immediately in front of Dean and offering only a brief and perfunctory curtsey as greeting.

“I am so ecstatic to catch you before you leave to serve our city, Slayer. I had thought you meant to ignore me.”

“Never, my Princess. Only I am called to service.”

Lilith tittered as she appraised his mare, fully saddled. “Well, that I can see, Slayer. Why do you imagine I am here?”

At the laughter of the ladies beside her, Jo failing to join in quickly enough and instead throwing Dean a pained smile. Dean hung his head in slight embarrassment as they repeated his words to one another several times with rising entertainment.

Dean stuttered at their entertainment, perplexed as to the appropriate response to the group, who all eyed him with light and expectant looks.

“I have come to wish you well, Slayer. On your journey.”

Dean bowed minutely at the beneficence of the statement, and Lilith’s expression lit up: “Thank you for my kindness, my Princess.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow and looked behind her to Lydia, who pursed her lips around a smile. “It is owed to you for your service to our city, Slayer. I hope that you return to us soon. Your leadership will be missed at court.”

“I promise.”

The women giggled again, this time perhaps against instruction, for Lilith shot a glance back at them, and both Bela and Portia hung their heads in embarrassment. Lilith took a step forward, separating herself from them, and lowering her voice, as though a secret would pass between them. Her words were plain though, and uninspired: “I will see you soon.”

Dean nodded lightly and she looked him over for a few moments more, before stepping back and resuming her normal tone of voice. “Come, we are needed at court.” Her women turned to her at once and followed, Jo a little less quick on the uptake than the rest and stumbling over the hem of her dress. Dean winked at her as she departed, and she rolled her eyes, narrowly avoiding Lilith catching the motion with a quick turn of the head and a dumb looking smile. Dean didn’t wait for their departure, the gates being ready for his leaving and the guard having better things to do than adhere to ceremony. He swung himself up on Impala and adjusted a few backs behind him, before clicking his tongue and leading her forward to the city’s exit, which inched open slowly and tediously. Atop Impala, Dean jiggled with impatience, anxious to leave the City and commence on a few stolen weeks in the forest – back in the open space, under the clear night sky, in the silence and the din. As soon as the gates were open, he started Impala forward at a brisk trot, which quickly progressed to a canter as soon as he witnessed the clear skies ahead, and a light movement in one of the tall trees to the South, where Dean knew Castiel was waiting for him.

...

“You’re late.”

Dean grinned as he dismounted Impala. She whinnied lightly at the early departure of her rider, clearly psyched up a longer and more substantial gallop before taking a rest. When she caught sight of Castiel, however, she appeared to forget that notion, in favour of trotting forward to greet him and at once searching his pockets.

Dean rolled his eyes as Castiel produced a fresh apple for her, which she took delightedly, before butting him once with her nose and turning away.

“Sorry, Cas. Got held up at the Palace with Slayer business. Couldn’t get away.”

Castiel at once dropped his gaze deferentially and let his tone turn apologetic. “I am sorry, Dean. If there is business you need to attend to, I would happily-.”

Dean paused for a moment. “No, no. Of course not. Just nonsense … I was accosted by the Princess when I was leaving.”

A slight relief washed over Castiel at the thought that their intended few weeks together would not be cut short as he had feared with Dean’s words. Even better, in explaining his lateness, Dean seemed even a little aggravated that he had been held up, even momentarily by the Princess, on his exiting the city.

“What did she desire?”

“Nothing really. Here”

Dean rushed forward and clapped Castiel on the back, letting his chin slot momentarily over Castiel’s shoulder, hunching slightly to do so. Castiel reciprocated the gesture, having become more proficient and studied at the abruptness with which it was meant to be performed, so not as to portray the enthusiasm with which he had anticipated this brief friendly moment, or irritate Dean with too long a hold.

“Good to see you.”

“It’s only been a week, Dean.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been looking forward to it anyway.”

Castiel hid his smile at that, and turned away to groom his fingers through Impala’s mane, who merely turned her nose to Castiel’s pockets again to search for a second potential offering. He ran his fingers up her saddle and along to the heavy packs placed on her back.

“I assume that these are the rations to be placed in the caves?”

“Yes, there’ snot many, I know. But I guess we’re anticipating that we can build up the stocks slowly. It’s trading season and they can’t spare the men to set them up properly. Samuel wanted to send me out with two boys, but I persuaded him off the idea.”

“It would have enabled us to set up the caves more thoroughly.”

“True, but then we couldn’t spend time together.”

Castiel turned back to Impala again to hide his elation, even though Dean’s tone was more practical than fond. Dean, however, seemed to immediately regret the statement, advancing to Impala officiously and tugging on the straps to make sure the sacks were properly secure and not causing her any irritation,

“I figured we could hunt and get some dried meat ready – that’s pretty substantial rations if a few men ever have to use one. That can keep us busy over the next few weeks. Unless you’ve changed your mind about setting up the havens yourself?

“Not at all. I will do them when you return to trading at the end of summer.”

“Sounds good, Cas.”

Their eyes met briefly over Impala’s saddle, before Dean returned to inspecting her satchels, and Castiel mimicked the same task, rather than allow himself to absorb Dean’s presence before him once again the way he wished to.

When Dean finished his activities, he looked back over the saddle and waited until he caught Castiel’s eye, apparently now having decided against the need for feigning nonchalance about the next few weeks. “So Cas, you’ve got me for two weeks. What’s the plan?”

Castiel didn’t bother to suppress his smile, hoping that it didn’t alert Dean to any untoward levels of joy in the words. Dean seemed contented enough and grinned back, as through proud of himself, while his eyes crinkled at the edges. “Aside from this business, you mean?”

“Yeah. All work, no play is too dull for words.”

Dean winked playfully as he made his final adjustment, and slapped Impala lightly on the neck. He looked at Castiel expectantly over the saddle, and his childish anxious anticipation was infectious enough that Castiel had little compunctions about volunteering one desire he had been harboring, despite the fact it was not the crucial one.

“I did have one idea.”

Dean clicked his tongue without further question, and quickly mounted Impala, settling himself in the saddle and pushing her forward into a slow walk. A second later, he squeezed his legs tightly and she burst into a canter at once. Dean looked back at Castiel, grinning over his shoulder, as he was temporarily left behind in the clearing. With another playful wink, Dean inclined his head and turned back to watch the path ahead of him and his mare, yelling out as though Castiel were in front of him:

“Lead the way.”

...

The first week passed in a blur and Castiel almost forgot the difficulties he had anticipated with Dean’s being so proximate in his cottage once again. There were a few incidents in which he was forced to avoid creating unwanted intimacy with Dean: most notably when Dean bathed in the river behind Castiel’s house on the warmer days, and when he stripped  himself of his clothing, right before sliding underneath the furs that adorned his bed. At those times, Dean seemed a little awkward too, and he would usually awkwardly mumble his way around the situations, rather than allow a bated silence to descend (when Castiel found ways to stare determinedly at unmoving, non-sentient objects) until they could rectify their general easiness and recommence their activities as though nothing had happened.

They did perform the required hunting for the stocking of the caves. Dean had become accustomed to Castiel’s way of apologizing to every animal he killed and he adjusted his habits to compensate. While he did not bring himself to replicate the action, if he made a kill of his own separate from Castiel, he would bring it back and offer it to him wordlessly for blessing, before they continued on as nothing had happened.

Dean also replenished Castiel’s pantry with enthusiasm, grinning and entirely too pleased with himself as he stocked it with luxuries he had managed to procure from the palace. Seeds for exotic vegetables and fruit trees, sweets, mead and more practical supplies, like wheat and corn. Castiel protested that he would have little use for the mead, but Dean insisted that they would “make merry” one night, declaring it was his heart’s deepest and greatest desire to see Castiel drunk. To that, Castiel could hardly say no.

The one change to their general routine was that Dean insisted, every morning, almost as soon as Castiel woke, upon asking Castiel what he desired to do that day. He answered first with lists of chores, or necessary tasks, like hunting. When that failed, he turned to tasks he knew Dean enjoyed – training and riding Impala being key priorities, although Dean had also brought a game, “Chess”, that he professed to enjoy and Castiel spent many an afternoon stating his desire to learn the rules, and avoiding displaying his immediate skill at the game to Dean, who grinned with childish glee every time he was pronounced victor. Eventually though, after a week and a half, he ran out of those options too, and he was forced to concede activities that he desired. They trekked up the mountains for two days and took in the expanse of forest below them. At Dean’s urging, Castiel took flight for one hour while Dean waited patiently on the ground, although occasionally calling for Castiel to perform “his best tricks”. He did not desire to, at first, but like everything else, once Dean’s enjoyment of witnessing them was made apparent, he performed them more and more, until Dean pronounced him a “show off” and bid him back down. Similarly, he escorted Dean several times to the nearest hives in the forest to check for the state of honey production. Since Dean was obviously nervous around the bees, Castiel never went so far as to suggest that they harvest the substance together; it was one breach of Dean’s rule that Dean seemed content to allow, although he made sure to prompt Castiel everyday of the requirement to visit other hives, in order to make up for it.

With only three nights to go, Castiel ran out of tasks he wished, and, after hefty persuasion from Dean (and as a “punishment” for failing to pronounce upon his desires, which Dean insisted he hand many which he merely refused to offer), they did engage in the task of drinking the mead Dean had brought.

Dean seemed almost entirely unaffected by the substance, but he insisted Castiel should match his every drink, and took great amusement as Castiel quickly flushed and became a little slow through the warm, slightly opaque hold of the substance.

“Cas, you’re an easy drunk. You’re lucky there’s no one here to take advantage of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Sex, Cas. Always sex. Makes the world go round.”

Castiel spluttered and lost some of the swig of mead Dean had forced him to mirror to the tabletop. Dean merely guffawed in response and slapped the table with the flat of his palm.

“You know I like drunk Cas.”

“I am hardly at my best, Dean. I might even be affronted you prefer me in this utterly useless and embarrassing form.”

Dean didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned at Castiel’s apparent offence – unusual, for him – and merely shrugged, chuckling, and slapped his friend across the shoulder.

“I like all the Cas-es. But this one’ s probably the funniest.”

Castiel blinked and rubbed at his bleary eyes, where Dean swam slightly out of focus. When he failed to improve upon the difficulty, he reached for Dean blindly. “My vision is suffering. You must fix this.”

Dean only laughed harder, but did take Castiel’s arm and lead him from the table, depositing him roughly in his small nest, now assembled in the opposite corner of the room to Dean’s bed, and far more substantial than it had been at the time of Dean’s last visit. It ws thick enough now that Dean could deposit him there without too much care, and he was not in danger of hurting himself on the hard floors.

“I think the best way to fix this is to sleep it off, Cas. You’re completely sloshed.”

Castiel groaned a little as he extricated a wing from beneath him, which had been uncomfortably folded when he’d lain upon it. Dean laughed and helped pull it out, before settling it gently against the furs and ensuring its proper positioning.

“This is all your doing.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t enjoy it at all.”

Castiel curled his lip and leaned back into his nest, using his wings to prop him up so he was still largely at eye level with Dean.

“It did taste less like swill on the third tankard,” he confessed seriously. Dean’s laughter erupted from him before he had the change to open his mouth, and so emerged as a buzz at his closed lips. Castiel recoiled from the spittle that followed, and Dean laughed even harder, pushing him backwards on to the furs again and leaning back.

“That’s my boy.”

Dean slapped Castiel on the arm again, before leaning towards the end of the bed and attempting to grab a fur and pull it over Castiel. Castiel swatted it away with a pout and a grumble: “too hot for that.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean crouched down beside Castiel’s nest and rearranged a few messy furs, before turning to meet Castiel’s gaze. “It’s nice to do things you like, isn’t it Cas?”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

Dean laughed once again, and settled back on his heels, looking entirely self-satisfied: “You’re a terrible liar, you love it.”

Castiel merely grunted and nestled back into his nest further.

“You should do that more often, Cas.”

“What?”

“Things you like. Things you want to do. It’s good for you.”

Castiel removed his face from where it was pressed into the furs to eyeball Dean indignantly.

“I disagree.”

Dean tilted his head to the side, and blinked at Castiel twice before he spoke, voice a little higher, and perhaps affronted though it was difficult to tell through the haze of thoughts his brain was mulling over.

“Why’s that?”

Castiel shrugged and slurred his way through his next words, staring at Dean’s feet rather than his face – his face being far too far away to go to the effort of looking at properly.

“Not everything I want to do is good. Some things aren’t right. They’re unfair.”

“…What could you want to do that would be unfair, Cas?”

Castiel glared at Dean’s feet for a moment, before he looked away and slid his palm down his face, hoping to wipe away whatever expression that resided there attempting to betray him.

“Can’t say.”

“Why not?”

Dean’s voice suddenly took on a tone of concern, and he reached for Castiel’s arm lightly, letting his index finger and thumb close around it.

“Cas, you’re the best person I know. You don’t have a corrupt desire in your body.”

Castiel turned away to avoid making a response and withdrew one of his wings from behind him to wrap around his body carefully, shaking his head softly.

“No.”

“What is it?”

“No.”

Dean sighed and leaned a little forward on his heels, bringing his face closer to Castiel’s bleary one.

“Cas, tell me.”

“No.”

“ _Cas_.”

Dean’s voice suddenly took on the tone of instruction, that he had maintained when insisting to Castiel the “rules” of their drinking game for the evening – namely that there were no rules except that Castiel would be getting terrifically drunk by matching Dean drink for drink. There was still laughter in it, but irritation too.

“I can’t say.”

Dean’s hand slid further up his arm and rubbed a little insistently there. When Castiel didn’t respond his pressed his fingers further into the skin, into Castiel’s armpit and tickled there. Castiel twitched and attempted to close the gap to force Dean’s fingers out, but he was unsuccessful. Dean laughed again:  “Why not?”

Castiel mumbled out nonsense words in a vague attempt at answer, caught between trying to force away the somehow unpleasant sensation and the sudden bolt of consciousness that Dean was touching him with unwarranted and unrestrained affection- platonic or not, it was enlivening, and at once, Castiel no longer wished for it to stop, instead going limp beneath Dean’s fingers.

Dean took that as a sign that his strategy was no longer effective, and he withdrew the touch to just shake at Castiel lightly, his voice turning pleading and high, in an irritating and childish request.

“Come ooon, Cas. Tell me.”

Castiel shook his head again.

“I won’t laugh.” A laugh burst out anyway, and Dean chuckled through the promise: “Please.”

Through the drunken haze, Castiel could discern the tone had changed although its implication reached him slowly. Slowly enough that he acted without properly processing that it wasn’t that Dean was playing the game still, giggling through the request. But that he was scared, and uncertain, and reluctant.

Castiel, in a fit of idiocy, threw his head back onto his wings and met Dean full in the eyes. Dean’s eyes widened a little as they watched him, and his pupils dilated imperceptibly, except for that which could be noted by Castiel’s clear vision. Carefully, as though his body were unwilling to do the task that his mind wished so much, Castiel slowly extended his hand to Dean’s face, until his fingertips lightly brushed the highest point of Dean’s cheekbone and rested there, moving only minutely with the movement of Castiel’s breathing and the pulse of his blood.

Dean froze beneath the touch, but Castiel barely registered it but with the sudden hum of energy that raced through him, muted by the feeling of the alcohol, but not made sluggish, spreading through every part of him instantaneously, singing.

With a small swallow, he let his fingers run down Dean’s face slowly and reverently, following the smooth curve of the cheekbone until his thumb brushed past down Dean’s lips and came to rest at his chin, the rest of his fingers dropping further until they cupped his jawline. He held them there for a moment, tracing the sharpness of it before letting his hand drop backwards and turning to burrow his head into his nest, suddenly intrigued by the warmth and softness on offer there.

“’M tired. Time for sleep.”

Dean’s voice was a soft whisper as he replied – all laughter gone - and it trembled lightly, although Castiel would not remember that until the next morning. He slowly breathed out as Castiel nestled himself into the furs and folded his wings around his body, still clothed, unbothered with rectifying the discomfort of their presence.

“Yeah, Cas. Just go to sleep now. Sleep it off.”

“Mmm.” Castiel murmured, already feeling his body relax into the furs around him, and burrowing into the instinctively comforting position of the fetus until his whole body was covered with the soft down of his feathers, creating the perfect cocoon of warmth for sleep.

Dean shifted lightly beside him and padded over to his own bed. Castiel registered blankly that there was no noise of Dean removing his clothes, as he normally would have, before he settled into the furs. There was little else though, before the comfortable blurriness pervaded the rest of his brain, and he dropped off to sleep quickly and pleasantly.

...

Castiel remembered what had happened before he woke up. It revisited him in a dream, in which he imagined a smooth, perfect plane of paper, made of fine sand and perfectly held together by some fascinating force that Castiel could not name. It felt like silk, and its smoothness made Castiel’s heart sing as he beheld it, somehow touching it without ever laying a hand on it, in order to avoid disturbing its perfection.

But then, the paper began to ruin. Suddenly, the soft silky texture became wooden, and it was pressed in upon itself, vicious and ugly lines of suffocating vileness, disrupting the pristineness with harsh, angry strokes that broke the sound of its perfectness. Castiel cried out as the paper crumpled further, until every part of its surface was racked with cracks and blemishes, each without order or logic, save for the destructive force of ruining what had been before him. Castiel ran his hands along it in earnest, attempting fruitlessly to remove the marks. But it was too late, it was destroyed, and Castiel’s heart thudded out the realization over and over again until he awoke with bile in this throat and the adrenalin particular to fear tickling through his veins.

Dean was gone. His bed was empty, and neatly made – the furs folded at the end, as an indication they ought to be cleaned. At the wall, Dean’s weapons had been removed, and his clothes no longer hung outside on the line that extended from Castiel’s cottage.

There was no need, Castiel knew, to run and check the stable.

And it was his fault. There was no pursuit in bringing him back. Castiel had destroyed everything.

As soon as he was awake, he threw his head back down into his nest, and wept, as he had never wept since the day he lost Anna and he thought he’d lost his heart.

...

Castiel lived the day as ordinarily as he could, returning to the routine he had been proficient in so many months ago. Before he had known Dean and the delicate balance had been disturbed. He began with the vegetables and moved to gather in the forest in the early afternoon, although he grew frustrated then and was forced to return to the cabin, nothing in hand except regret and self-loathing.

The brief thought of continuing to visit the Road crossed his mind. He could defend Dean, even from a distance. Dean knew him well enough to know it was something he might do – perhaps, in time, he might re-enter the forest, and they might return to cordial terms. But that was foolish, he chastised himself. Dean had left because he no longer desired his company. It would be unfair to impose himself further.

Part of him raged against the misguided teachings of those religious zealots in the Cities that had perpetrated the view that affection should only be shared between two biologies. But in his heart, he knew he had only himself to blame. He knew Dean would rebuff him, and he had foolishly allowed himself to persist nonetheless. It was vain to blame the teachings for Dean’s disgust with him. It was very much just as likely that Dean could never really desire him – that he felt pity for him, in his pathetic fallen state, and looked after him as a coward, who had been too frightened to follow his brothers and sisters into the abyss and properly help the humans he claimed to love,

Dean had his brother. The woman, Lydia. The City Guard, Bobby. The Princess, Lilith. Even his brother’s wife now, who all presented him with the affection he needed on the terms he could accept. Castiel alone had violated those boundaries, even though he had surmised that to do so would risk what he treasured so with Dean, and for that reason he was a selfish being. He had chosen the short-sighted need over the long-term desire for Dean’s friendship. He was a fool.

He threw the empty bottles of mead across the room in frustration at one point, before descending to a dull and uninspired stupor for the rest of the afternoon. He was so distracted by the thoughts of his own idiocy that he failed to acknowledge the knocking  at the door for several minutes, and the knocker was forced to increase his volume and intensity, shouting through the wood: “Cas! Cas! Let me in!”

Castiel was leaning against the back of a chair when he registered the tone of the voice, and its familiar gruffness – even overlain with a certain panicked urgency.

“Dean?”

“Cas. _Cas_.” Dean breathed out the name against the door, as his knocking stopped abruptly. Castiel hurried forward to the door, and wrenched it open, struck by the sight of Dean leaning against the doorframe, sweating and eyes blown wide with desperation.

“Dean, wha-“

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry about before.” Dean stumbled forward, almost drunkenly into the cottage, leaving the door ajar behind him.

“No, I’m sorry. I-“

Dean whirled on him, mouth hung open in an expression caught somewhere between horror and belief, though both took turns in flickering across his face in full capacity.

“No, you didn’t, Cas.”

“Why-?”

Dean stopped him by stepping forward, so that he and Castiel were close enough that he could feel the energy of their bodies vibrating between them. Dean inhaled once, although it was stoppered in his throat only partially into the motion, and he gritted his teeth as he exhaled furiously against Castiel’s face.

“Do it again, Cas.”

“What-“

Dean swallowed part way through his next breath, before almost growling as he stepped forward even closer to Castiel, so that the rings around his irises were obvious, even to a person not so blessed with Castiel’s eyesight.

“Do it again.”

“I don’t know what you-“

“Yes, you do.”

Dean exhaled carefully through his nose and the nostrils flared as he sought to control himself. Slowly, under Castiel’s gaze, his urgency melted, and his mouth fell open as he searched Castiel’s face, imploring him to acquiesce.

“Cas, _please_.”

Castiel stood in silence for several long moments before he extended his hand, again. Slowly, and gingerly, far more carefully than he had the first time, and with a slight tremor in his fingertips, he let the side of his index finger run down the curve of Dean’s cheekbone, pressing his lips together to avoid expressing the torture he felt in performing that small task, and the regret he wished to confess for its original performance.

Dean’s breath hitched when Castiel’s thumb made contact with his skin and his pupils pulsed, suddenly dilating as they locked on Castiel’s. His breathing stuttered as Castiel let the finger continue the path downward across his cheek, until Dean ceased its movement with a sharp turn of his head.

He rotated his head until his lips met the side of Castiel’s finger and they puckered slightly, so that their stick caught on the skin momentarily and dragged across it. Castiel froze in the motion, as he watched with morbid fascination the way the touch was drawn out, scarcely noticing the sensation of it at all.

“Dean.” Castiel’s stomach heaved a little as he watched the skin of Dean’s lips slowly peel away from his finger, leaving behind a tiny coolness as the air came in contact with it. His own voice was unrecognizable to his own ears, for it wavered in an unfamiliar way and cracked at the slight movement of Dean’s lips across his knuckle. Slowly, Dean turned his head, letting Castiel’s finger run across the side of his face until it settled against his jaw. His eyes stayed fixed on Castiel’s.

When he mouthed _Cas_ , no sound came out.

Castiel’s jaw froze in a hard line as he stared at Dean. Slowly, he moved to withdraw his hand, but Dean’s face followed his touch, and he murmured out a light “no.”

Swallowing carefully, and leaving his index finger on Dean’s cheek, Castiel slowly extended his other hand forward, until his thumb came to rest beside the bridge of Dean’s nose. Dean’s jaw dropped a little at that, his eyelids flickered momentarily, but he didn’t look away from Castiel, although he took a breath as though he might cry. Castiel’s heart began to hit at his ribcage like it desired escape from the torturous proximity he was inflicting upon it – the cruel, sweet promise of a desire left unfulfilled for however long it had existed (longer even, than Castiel had known), and the simultaneous battle his senses waged with allowing it to be fully realized.

Even more slowly than before, Castiel let his thumb drag down the side of Dean’s face and alongside the corner of this mouth, so that his thumb came to rest at its edge, where the skin created a soft line to mark the change of content and to make out the shape of Dean’s full lips.

Dean swallowed and when he inhaled again, his mouth dropped open wider, and his breath shuddered out in three pulses, stopping when Castiel’s eyes dropped to his lips.

He held his hands ther e as Dean brought his face closer to Castiel’s until their lips were only a finger’s breadth apart. Was it Dean though? Castiel wasn’t sure. He was barely aware of the change from one moment to the next. Aware of nothing except the tightness in his lungs and the sheen of Dean’s full, almost sunburned looking lips and the scent that hung beyond them. He could not process what it reminded him of, except that it was delicious and he fought against trying to taste the air with his lips.

When their noses touched, Dean let out a harsh breath, that sounded almost like a protest. Castiel raised his eyes to Dean’s and watched Dean’s pupils shiver as they tried to bring his into focus at such close range.

“Dean, I-“

Castiel was only breathing out the words against Dean’s lips. At the rush of air, Dean’s mouth dropped open and he swallowed in Castiel’s words with a terrified, shaky keen.

At once, Castiel made to withdraw, letting the tip of his nose leave Dean’s and start to pull away.

The movement was all it took.

Dean seized against him immediately, and the next second, it was all over. With one quick movement, Dean took Castiel’s hands and pushed them off his face. Then, before Castiel could even respond, he cupped Castiel’s cheeks and jaw in his own and pulled him forward.

It was a touch of lips, nothing more. A sticky press of delicate skins that had dried from their hastened breathing. As Dean pulled away, there was an exquisite sensation as each tiny molecule that comprised Castiel’s felt the loss of him moment by moment, but cherished the parts that still remained in contact. It was only a second or two in total, but nonetheless, when Dean withdrew, his eyes surveyed Castiel’s face dizzily and there was a flush of pink at his cheeks. His breath came out in a fast exhale, and a second later he was wrapped around Castiel properly, head burrowed into his shoulder and arms tightening around his neck.

It was terror, mixed with an emotion that was far stronger  that pumped through Dean’s body with every heartbeat and Castiel felt it bursting beneath his skin and pulsing against his own.

“Dean, are you sure?”

Dean nodded against his neck and didn’t say anything more, and Castiel didn’t push him. This moment of vulnerability, this sudden realization that Dean was enduring, which flew against everything he’d known about himself for his life so far, and which he likely believed was damnable, was private. So he let Dean hold him, and let the shivers slowly dissipate as Dean huffed into his shoulder. Carefully, and so as to avoid frightening him, he let his free arms settle at Dean’s waist and wrap around him there – bringing him close enough for a comfortable embrace, but not too close to alarm him, and there he waited, while Dean accepted what had passed, and what it would mean for the remainder of his future.

 


	17. And Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello friendships! 
> 
> I'm so pleased you are all back here, once again, for the latest instalment. It has been something of a battle to get it to you, since I worked until midnight Monday to Friday, and all day Saturday this week (no wonder my employer doesn't pay overtime. They owe me almost another whole week's salary for this week alone).
> 
> I hope that this will be something of an anomaly, as I am running out of pre-written chapters, and we are (well on route to) reaching the crescendo! Your wonderful reviews, kudos, or even just attending to this page, as usual, mean the absolute world to me, and I have thought of all you all fondly many times this week. I'll do my best to keep up the usual schedule, but if I drop off the grid for a week or two in the coming months, just know that this story WILL ABSOLUTELY be finished. It's come too far now.
> 
> Your kind words are inspiring me to take risks and explore what I can offer the world outside of the walls of my cubicle. It'll be a little while yet, since I have a few things to round off, and a holiday I need the money for. But I have made a decision, and everything will be better for it. Thank you all, and I hope you like the chapter!

** CHAPTER SIXTEEN **

Dean didn’t mention what they’d done for the rest of the day. It passed as usual, and Castiel acquiesced to his whims. Dean wanted to ride again, and he cheered Castiel on as he raced Impala around the clearing, letting his wings flap behind him. Castiel ignored the moments where he felt Dean’s eyes upon him, raking his face, and instead awaited Dean’s instruction to reciprocate.

Over dinner, they spoke of the Citadel, and Dean described a few decidedly benign festivals for Castiel, who kept his eyes stubbornly on his dinner, and moved obligingly out of the way when Dean took his plate, so that he wouldn’t come into contact too soon.

It wasn’t until, when they were both bleary-eyed in front of the fire, having avoided the incident to the point of exhaustion (unsure of how to sleep without its being raised) that the fact that the morning had even happened was revisited. As was always the case, Dean made his way to his bed, in the corner where it was now assembled permanently for his use, disrobed and snuggled beneath the furs.

He didn’t speak until Castiel, slowly rose from his chair and padded quietly to his own nest, unbuttoning his shirt with his back to Dean and sliding out of it as silently as possible, to avoid sound as though that might be distressing.

“What are you doing, Cas?” Dean’s whisper was light and seemingly untroubled from the other side of the room. Castiel acknowledged it with a light turn of his head, but not enough to bring Dean, in his bed, into his field of vision.

“I’m going to bed .”

“Don’t... don’t sleep there.”

Dean was careful in his tone – even. But on his final word, there was a slight crack of uncertainty in his voice. Castiel turned slowly, bunching his shirt in front of him, in order to appraise Dean as he lay on his side in his bed, staring up at Castiel with eyes that seemed almost black in the bare light of the cabin.

“Dean, I’m not sure...”

“Please.”

Dean kept his eyes on Castiel as he made the request, raising his head off the pillow slightly. Castiel watched him for a moment before he decided it was best not argue, since that would avoid broaching the subject of their kiss before Dean had initiated the topic. Still holding the shirt in front of him, he bent over and dragged his nest as best he could closer to Dean’s bed, although it dismantled somewhat with the journey across the room. When he was only a metre or so away from him, he spread the furs out and carefully lowered himself into the nest, looking away from Dean as he did so, and allowing his wings to wrap around himself to avoid his upper nakedness. As he began to twist and curl into the right position, he felt Dean shift beside him. Then there was a feather light touch to his shoulder.

“Not there, Cas.”

Castiel let his eyes drift to Dean’s hand on his shoulder, rather than look to Dean’s face, and witness the broiling emotion there that threatened to provoke him. He cleared his throat softly and pressed his lips together before answering:

“I can’t. Dean, you’re not... I’m not...”

Dean paused for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was stronger, and more like the playful Dean that Castiel had witnessed that afternoon: “I’m not asking you to bed me, Cas. I’m just asking you to get _in_ bed with me.”

Castiel stiffened a little at the brazenness of the statement, and the sudden pulse that flared bright under his skin where Dean was touching him. Dean gave him a small, nervous, and entirely foreign smile to that Castiel had ever witnessed before. It was almost child-like in its innocence and sweetness, and the flare in Castiel’s skin at once descended to a soft hum.

Carefully, Castiel nodded and raised himself a little, so he was perched on the balls of his feet, and he shuffled his wings so that they lay smooth across his back. Slowly, Dean wriggled backwards in the nest, and he raised his right arm so that the fur under which he was wrapped opened in a small, inviting cavern.

With utmost care, as though he were afraid too quick a movement might startle him, Castiel slid himself slowly in beside Dean. Starting with his foot, and following with his pelvis until his whole body was drawn under the cover. He was careful not to accidentally touch Dean, and ruin the spell, but moments later, Dean broke it for him, by reaching forward and running a thumb across Castiel’s lips.

“I’d like to do it again, Cas.”

Castiel felt his eyes flicker shut this time, and he restrained his lips from pressing a kiss to Dean’s thumb.

“May I?”

Castiel nodded, and let his eyes stay closed. Even as he smelt Dean’s approach, and listened to his soft little exhales and sighs, it was still a surprise when he felt Dean’s lips connect with his own, this time wet better and slippery against his.

The kiss was another press, although a little harder this time, and as they kissed, Dean manoeuvred his head to let his lips twist lightly against Castiel’s. When they slipped into an uncomfortable position, Dean’s lips parted slightly and he pulled back momentarily and repositioned them against Castiel’s own in another sweet, soft, butterfly touch.

They might have continued like that for hours, Castiel didn’t remember. Tiny, nervous, tentative touches that barely grazed against each other. At some point, Castiel’s fingers slipped to touch, feather light, and Dean’s bare chest, and he let them hook there, just marking a point of contact into Dean’s skin – one small pinprick.

Castiel knew he was inept at it – reciprocating with the clumsy kisses that a child would when they were bold enough to dare to go near another human for the first time – but it was enough to make his whole body soar and glow, and even the barest touch or alteration of the position of Dean’s lips on his own was enough to send a jolt of light coursing through his being.

Eventually, the peppery kisses moved to the side of Castiel’s mouth and across his cheek, where they turned to soft little nudges of Dean’s nose back and forth his skin, and the gentle caress of Dean’s breath as he huffed out tired little sighs. Even later, that stopped, and Castiel lay awake and staring as Dean snored lightly against his cheek, watching his eyelashes flutter with every twitch of the lid, and his muscles slowly relax until he fell against Castiel’s body and curled, so that every part of him came in contact with Castiel.

Castiel didn’t sleep for hours. His heart thudded too strongly and his lungs ached and his muscles cramped with the exhilaration of it – the realisation that, at last, he was not alone.

...

When Castiel woke the next morning, Dean had already left the bed, and he’d arranged the fur so it lay neatly across Castiel and the mass of the nest below him. There was no unpleasant jolt in Castiel’s stomach that Dean had left him overnight, for almost immediately upon waking he could hear the sound of Impala whickering in the clearing outside of his cottage, and Dean’s clicking of his tongue as she trotted around the vicinity.

Castiel took his time dressing, and he prepared tea and some fresh fruit for the two of them before he joined Dean in the bright sunlight of the late morning. When he exited the house, Dean grinned at him from atop Impala, but carried out a few practise drills at the other end of the clearing before trotting to meet Castiel at the steps.

“Slept in?”

“Yes.”

Castiel was surprised at the almost gruff ache in his voice, from the hours of holding his breath bated and nervous last night while Dean rolled and twisted against him, nestling closer and closer and igniting senses in Castiel he’d never imagined he had.

He knew every part of Dean’s scent now, whereas before he’d only tasted the dominant odour of leather and sweat and earth on his tongue. There was musk there too, that left tones of oil and pepper and wood, and beneath that an even lighter, lasting tone, that was tart but soft, like lemon mixed with elderflower.

And here, with Dean before him, despite the scent of sweat and light off his skin, Castiel smelt them all again, and they made his head spin and his skin tingle and prickle in a way that was so uncomfortable, but he could never fathom asking to stop.

Dean was seemingly unaware of the effect of his proximity, taking a few apple slices from Castiel’s proffered plate and offering a handful to Impala, while munching on another himself. Impala nickered contentedly against his palm, and Dean grinned and leaned his face against the side of hers, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

The sight of Dean’s lips puckered, even with the comical wet and squeezing sound they produced, sent a light shudder through Castiel and he looked away quickly and set the fruit down on the table beside him, and handed Dean his mug of tea.

Dean swallowed a gulp of his mug and startled at the heat of it, wincing as he swallowed it down.

“Sorry, I should have warned you.”

“It’s fine, Cas.”

Dean’s voice was gruff, but reedy enough to make clear that the temperature of the drink had done a little damage. He swallowed a few times awkwardly to smother the damage and set the cup down beside Castiel. Castiel froze to allow Dean to make the movement unimpeded, and stayed settled against the table as Dean returned to Impala.

“Are you staying... for a while?”

Dean’s eyes slid to meet Castiel’s and he gave a small, nervous smile: “if you’ll have me.”

“Of course.” Castiel felt a smile play around his lips, and he saw a flicker of delight in Dean’s face.

“Just... a few days. I’ll have to go back to the men then. But, I was planning on staying away for a little longer, so...”

“You are welcome as long as you wish.”

Dean grinned in earnest, and moved away from Impala so he could lean against the wall of the cottage alongside Cas. He looked to the fake sigils painted on the side of the wall, away from Cas and let his fingers lightly trace the marks there. The silence was heavy, given what had transpired the night before (of which it was clear now Dean intended to make no mention), but amicable in an odd sort of way. Castiel contentedly let it ride out, surreptitiously stealing glances at Dean’s profile until he felt a brush creep into his cheeks after he let his gaze linger on Dean’s lips for a second too long. After that, he contended himself with enjoying the quiet but busy energy of the clearing, and listened to the sounds of the forest hard at work during the warm months.

“So, what can I help you with today?”

“Hm?” Castiel  feigned nonchalance at being startled out of the reverie of remembering the feel of Dean’s lips ghosting across his cheek the night before, and he blushed deeper when he meet Dean’s searching gaze, who genuinely didn’t seem to have an idea of what Castiel could possibly have been imagining. “Oh, nothing, really.”

Dean grinned: “Come on, Cas. I’m well aware that I’m eating you out of house and home. I don’t want you blaming me when you’re starving next winter.”

Castiel smirked. It was true, Dean did eat far more than Castiel had imagined he would. Years in the forest, and almost hibernations during winter, had grown him accustomed to rationing. Dean protested that the same was true of him – he was used to eating small portions on the Road. But his idea of “small portions” was practically a banquet for Castiel, and his stores had depleted dangerously low over the time that Dean had stayed with him. Certainly, in the final winter months, he found himself thinner than usual.

“Come on, show me where the summer berries are.”

“They’re on the ridge past the willow by the river.”

Dean winked at him:

“Race ya.”

...

The late morning and afternoon passed quickly. Castiel took a shortcut across the treetops and beat Dean to the site by two minutes. Dean expressed his disdain by hurling handfuls of sand and mud from the river at Castiel upon arrival, which Castiel dodged and hid from at the top of the willow and Dean cursed him from the side of the river. Berry picking took a large part of the day, and they lay in the sun in the clearing for the duration of the afternoon.

Dean insisted on killing and preparing dinner that night, which may have been his apologising for the awkwardness of the day’s previously, or avoiding going with Castiel to the feeding post where he left a fresh kill for the Angels just before sundown. Whatever the reason, he was especially proud of his creation when he seated Castiel, lighting two candles in the middle of the table for light the room in the gathering dusk. Mercifully, the Angels didn’t start their screaming until after their dinner, and didn’t spoil the delight on Dean’s face as he watched Castiel consume his creation.

“Good?”

In truth, the meat was leathery and tasteless, and the grains heavy and thick – designed to confer the maximum amount of energy possible with the least preparation time – a soldier’s meal. Castiel had a difficult time consuming it all and at the end before his stomach protested its incapacity, but under Dean’s proud gaze he ate it with a smile and a grateful expression. When the screams commenced, he stayed seated while Dean cleaned his handiwork – again insisting Castiel did nothing – and Castiel read aloud for both of them by candlelight until Dean, exhausted, burrowed into the furs.

In light of Dean’s ignoring the subject of the previous night during the day, Castiel waited a long while before he himself prepared for bed, and Dean’s breathing was deep and even. Nonetheless, when Castiel tried to drag his fur back to the centre of the room, Dean grabbed at his wrist sleepily: “in here, Cas.” Even through his tiredness, Dean lay awake with Castiel a long while, pressing drowsy, tight-lipped kisses to his lips and along the line of Castiel’s jaw until he once again lay, snoring lightly into the dip at the bottom of Castiel’s throat.

...

The routine continued for two days, and Dean ignored the fact that he was due to leave. When Castiel awoke every morning Dean had already departed and rode Impala in circles around the clearing. He assembled a little obstacle course for her one morning, and they practised jumping and swerving at short notice under the gradually warming sun.

Castiel would prepare them breakfast, and took to watching the pair of them for longer and longer. In the afternoon, Dean assisted Castiel with whatever task he deemed necessary, although there generally was little to do given Castiel had utilised Dean shamelessly earlier in the week for such tasks. He worked in the vegetable garden a little, tidied (his own mess, largely) the cottage, and even weeded the area when Castiel insisted that his stocks needed no replenishing – and any addition to them by hunting or gathering would go to waste.

Each night, they would curl against each other – close, but cautious. Dean would press careful kisses along Castiel’s face and neck and, as they became more acclimatised to the routine, he would run his fingers through his hair and along the tight tendon at the side of his neck. Things stayed soft, tender and nervous and Dean kept himself firmly under control at all times, never letting his hands roam too far or his body press to near to Castiel’s.

Every night, however, it became harder for Castiel to tolerate such carefulness. When Dean touched him with his mouth, or just even just with his eyelashes, his skin would come alight with a glow and he’d feel a soft, perfectly warm sense of silkiness run through his body until he was faint and limber and pliant under the fur to whatever gentle kisses Dean decided to bestow. But as things progressed, that warmth became stronger and at some times, the light would turn to fire and Castiel would find his breath hitching and his heart racing where he felt like Dean’s touch lit a match against his skin. He found it difficult to match Dean’s pace – his lips followed when Dean’s withdrew, and he pushed more forcefully with his own lips until Dean calmed him with feather-light brushes across his eyelashes and cheekbones. Whenever Dean fell asleep, he was left with energy bursting under his skin with nowhere to go, and it left him tingling and nervous, in anticipation of nothing, until he eventually drifted off to sleep. The sight of Dean, sweating atop Impala and grinning in his direction, was enough to set it off again almost immediately every morning, and it rose atop his skin, like a pleasant kind of itch, until he was sweating and found the need to excuse himself just to bear the relief of being out of sight of Dean’s beaming smile for a few calming moments.

...

It was Dean who suggested the swim on what he eventually conceded would be their final day together. He let Castiel ride Impala around the clearing first, and under the sun, they both worked up a sweat at the speed with which they thundered around the clearing.

Dean was a little unfocussed when Castiel approached him atop Impala, and he stuttered out that he fancied one final swim before he left the next day. He took Impala down to the clearing and Castiel flew above, although he made sure to keep pace with the pair of them, flitting in and out of the tree tops where there was space to watch their path below him. He wished he’d arrived earlier and spared a little mortification though when he and Dean stood, spluttering and blushing, beside the river, unsure of themselves around one another at the prospect of their near-nakedness in the water.

Eventually, Castiel broke the tension, by turning and commencing unlacing his shirt from beneath his wings. By the time he was done, even with his dexterity at the task, Dean was already unclothed and sliding into the water. Castiel caught sight of his bare back, glistening with sweat too under the bright sunlight and the thick, sinewy muscles beneath the skin that manoeuvred to orchestrate every tiny movement with sensuous rolls.

Dean made a point of swimming someway up the river, so that he avoided witnessing Castiel’s undressing. Once they were properly submerged, however, he returned, all charm and wide smiles, entirely ignorant of the weighty moments that had passed previously.

“S’freezing!”

Castiel couldn’t disagree. Even in the warmth of summer, the river was covered by the forest’s shadow, and, fresh from the mountains, it was never sufficiently warmed by the sun’s rays to ever be comfortably pleasant. He’d wrapped his wings awkwardly around himself, partially to alleviate the difficulties Dean seemed to be experiencing with seeing him so unclothed, but also because it was particularly chilly for the time of year, and his sunkissed skin could scarcely cope with the abrupt change of temperature. He was only waist deep, unlike Dean who was almost fully submerged, and even then, there was a tremor running across his wings and the feathers bristled in the cold.

“Remind me whose bright idea this was again?”

Castiel inclined his head at Dean accusatorily.

“Ah... right.”

Dean gave a comically large shiver under water, but didn’t emerge. There were a few beats before Castiel caught the wicked glint in his eye.

“If I’m in, you’ve got to get in too.” Dean raised his eyebrows at the way Castiel had blanketed himself in his wings.

“This was your idea.”

“And you’re here now. We’re in this together. Come on.”

Castiel chuckled and shook his head, enjoying the way Dean had suddenly lost his self-consciousness and grinned at him wickedly. He had an inkling of what Dean was planning, but to see that entertainment a little longer, he would leave himself open to the inevitable

It came a few seconds later, when Dean wound up, and ran his palms through the water, flicking them up and spraying a shower over Castiel’s head. Most of the water was caught by his wings, and ran off the oil, so Castiel was left unscathed, but a sizable dollop landed on the crown of Castiel’s head and he felt the coolness run over it and down his neck like someone had cracked an egg there.

At his look of disdain, Dean let out a delighted shout and commenced windmilling his arms to CAstiel was subject to a tirade of showers all at once, and when he became less self conscious and opened his wings, he became properly wet with the onslaught.

At some point, he recovered his composure to return the favour in kind, and equipped with large and dextrous wings that doubled effectively as scoopers, Dean quickly surrendered and collapsed, still immersed, giggling against the banks of the river. He was so caught up in the joy of the game that he scarcely noticed that Castiel’s eyes had become stuck on parts of his exposed body. The skin he had so carefully hidden over the duration of their acquaintance was bared entirely for his pleasure, and Castiel was obsessed by it.

He wanted to look. He knew Dean would overcome such modesty when he was ready, and Castiel would be privy to the magnificence of his body. He chided himself aggressively, but it was several long moments before he was able to look away and even then, the image of Dean’s chest, glistening with beads of water and heaving tanned skin was engrained into his mind’s eye.

It was inadvisable to join Dean when he called to him. There was still a sense of the game in his voice, and no doubt he intended to take Castiel by surprise and recommence it once he came close enough. However, when Castiel approached, fire burning in his skin, any thought of the game seemed to leave Dean’s mind and he crinkled his brow as Castiel seated himself beside him, and bent forwards to accommodate Castiel’s left wing as it stretched and curved around his back and along the bank.

When Castiel sat, Dean’s eyes were blown wide and his mouth was hanging open slightly.

“Hey Cas.”

“Hello Dean.”

There was a weighty beat.

Dean flicked a little water at Castiel’s chest. It was half-hearted and barely made its way to Castiel’s chest, barring a few droplets that settled there. Castiel was almost certain they would evaporate immediately off his skin at the heat that was burning there.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched and he leaned forward quickly once, pressing a chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips as he had done the few nights previously. It was quick, and playful, and nervous. And it was the first time they had kissed in the daylight since the first time, and the first time it had felt normal and unsecretive – in the expanse of the open forest, rather than covert and private under the coverings of the fur and Castiel’s dark cottage.

But the sight of water dripping from Dean’s eyelashes, and his hair plastered across his forehead, so that he looked entirely ridiculous, went straight to Castiel’s gut, where it burned, insistent and pleading.

He saw Dean’s breath exhale quickly as his eyes searched Castiel’s face, and he bit his lip. “Cas?”

Castiel didn’t respond, sure if he did he would growl or kiss Dean too hard, or both, and ruin the carefree delight that thrummed from Dean’s very being across from him.

 Then, as quickly as before, Dean darted forward, and placed another soft kiss on Castiel’s lips, but this time, he followed the same path as he did in the evenings, pressing a path across Castiel’s check and down along his jaw to his chin. They were soft still, and quick, light – almost silly. But across from Dean, unclothed and vibrant, they made the urgency pool in Castiel more than it had before. And when Dean returned to Castiel’s mouth to press another touch there, Castiel met him with open lips and a hand on his jaw.

At first Dean stiffened a little at the touch. He let Castiel capture his top lip with his own and allowed him to press more insistently, and move his lips a little, although he kept his own entirely still. And for a moment, it seemed he would withdraw, and forgive Castiel his temporary transgression. But when Castiel moved his lips again, to recapture Dean’s upper lip more strongly and give it the lightest little tug, Dean’s whole body seemed to come alive at once.

Where his lips had been tight and careful before, they opened underneath Castiel’s and met them flush and hurried. Where there had only been a soft, sticky touch before, his lips were now wet and suddenly, Castiel could _taste_ Dean all over – liquorice and brandy and rich, dark earth. And _heat._ Strength. _Desire._

Deans hands went to Castiel’s cheeks and pulled him closer. When he did, Castiel felt the press of Dean’s tongue on his lips, and when he parted them pliantly (knowing not how he knew that was what he should do), it slid into his mouth and tangled with his own. It should have been obstructive, the logical part of Castiel’s brain knew. Their tongues and lips and teeth didn’t properly work in tandem, all striving for distinct aims. But somehow, in the mess of it all and in the strings of saliva that hung from their lips when they pulled away to gasp in breaths, it was right and Castiel’s body erupted with sensations all at once..

They were pulling closer and closer, and the kissing became harder and harder. Dean’s teeth began to nip at Castiel’s lip, and the slight tickle that they made as they dragged across the skin was utterly enlivening and enboldening. Without knowing how he did it, Castiel wrapped his wing around Dean and pulled him close to him. But in the mess of arms and legs, it wasn’t close enough. And with their mouths seeking out one another desperately, they found themselves standing, so that their chests, legs and _God_ , were aligned, tight and burning and _not nearly enough_.

And Dean’s skin was beneath Castiel’s hands, and they were grappling everywhere to seize all of it at once. Up and down the smooth planes of his back, feeling out where each muscles ended and another began, and squeezing at the delicious firmness of it. And then they were in his hair and along the back of his neck, twisting and pulling to wrench him closer to Castiel so that he could taste more and burrow deeper.

And Dean was giving as good as he was getting. His tongue was everywhere in Castiel’s mouth, tasking teeth and tongue and exploring every part of it with increasing desperation. And at some point, it moved to his neck, licking at the spot under his earlobe and sucking at the flesh part of the skin. Hard.

When Dean wrenched Castiel’s head to the side to expose more of his neck, Castiel couldn’t help but stifle his gasp and the little tone of a smothered groan which accompanied it. And at that, the first sound, other than the slick of spit and harried breaths, Dean froze.

And then the heat in Castiel’s skin died. Dean pulled away quickly, wiping his mouth quickly with the heel of his hand and eyes cast down.

“Sorry. Sorry, Cas. I’m sorry. I-“

Castiel reached for him, eyes wide and lips red and raw from contact they’d never sought out in thousands of years but now were devastated to be without. “Dean, it’s-“

“No, don’t!”

Dean wrenched himself from Castiel’s wing and waded as quickly as he could to the bank, where he stumbled the first time pulling himself from the water, and cursed, before grabbing onto the reeds and tearing them out in his desperation to escape the water. He pulled his clothes over wet skin, and they clung improperly, not properly descending to cover his chest, and sticking around his legs so he walked oddly.

“Dean-”

Dean ignored Castiel’s meek call in favour of unwinding Impala’s bridle from the tree branch where they had left her, with enough space to drink from the river.

“No.”

“Dean-“

“No, Cas.”

Castiel stopped trying to catch his eye as Dean slung himself atop Impala and wedged his feet into the stirrups of her saddle. He was breathing shakily, and line of his shoulders was evidently tense, from Castiel stood, now shivering at the loss of Dean’s warmth, in the river.

When he did turn, his eyebrows slanted downwards to the sides of his face, and his eyes were glistening. “Cas, I’m sorry.” His voice cracked and he turned and hung his head before Castiel could even open his mouth to respond. By the time Castiel did, Dean was already thundering from the clearing, away from him.

...

Castiel took his time leaving the river. His wings were waterlogged, and he shook them out, knowing he might make himself ill if he did not clear them properly. He didn’t fly home either, preferring to make the trek in silence, even under the darkening night sky. He didn’t anticipate Dean to be waiting for him. And he cursed himself when he saw the flicker of light in the window and knew that, whatever had happened the afternoon, he had likely caused Dean to worry for him.

He’d expected Dean to be angry when he entered the cottage, for he knew Dean hated the thought of him out in the forest after dark, even if, of the two of them, Castiel had a far better track record of safety.

But Dean wasn’t angry, or anything close. But he didn’t greet Castiel with a relieved hug, either.

Instead, he gestured faintly to the dinner table, where he’d assembled a paltry mess of a meal. It seemed as though Dean had forgotten to cook the beans entirely, while the toast was charred black at the edges. Castiel sat carefully, and silently, watching Dean for any sign of alarm or upset. There was only wariness though, and Dean’s eyes flickered away from Castiel’s when they met.

Castiel started eating while Dean made himself busy in the kitchen, first tidying away the knives he had used for preparing the meal.

“I left the other half at the feeding post. So you don’t have to...”

He trailed off and determinedly avoided Castiel’s gaze again, when Castiel opened his mouth as though to speak. They ate entirely in silence, and the screams started earlier, which, to Dean’s relief it seemed, removed the impetus for conversation.

Nonetheless, after an hour at which they did little more than stare at each other over the top of the table, Castiel tried anyway.

“Dean, I-“

“Please don’t look at me like that, Cas. I already feel-“

“How  is it that I am looking at you?”

Dean looked up, mouth open as though preparing to say something, but he swallowed it when he met Castiel’s eyes.

“Dean, I’m not angry.”

Dean looked down at his hands.

“I’m confused. I don’t regret-“

“I do though, alright?”

“ _What?_ ”

Dean hung his head as Castiel choked out the question, as though someone had punched him in the stomach to summon it.

“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“But I wanted you to-“

“No.”

“ _Dean_.”

“This should stop.”

This time Castiel felt an actual punch to his stomach, even if Dean’s hands were by his sides. Dean met his eyes balefully and Castiel, breathing heavily through his nose, looked away immediately to his right shoulder, where his wings stiffened and hung low on his back.

“This is my fault. I shouldn’t have... I started this, and I was wrong. It’s wrong”

Castiel covered his mouth with his palm and brushed at his nose furiously.

They were silent for a long time.

“Why?”

Despite the obviousness of the query, Dean stiffened as it was pronounced  and appeared to hope that silence would lead them both to forget it. But when Castiel merely continued to watch Dean in expectation, he conceded with an embarrassed murmur.

“Cas, we’re... we’re both...”

It was hard to stifle anger at Dean’s ignorance of the obvious, but Castiel breathed in deeply and explained softly:

“Dean, my Father’s scripture has been interpreted wrongly by the men in your Citadel. I am an Angel of the Lord and I know his intention.” Dean looked away stubbornly, embarrassed, and Castiel sighted carefully before continuing with a tone he imagined he might use with a child one day, if he ever had the opportunity.

“My Father cares not to whom your attraction is awarded, so long as it is done with care and compassion. Had he not desired that two men be together, you know I would not have let you kiss me.” Dean flinched at the word and Castiel fought back a reactive retort: “I would not have even desired you.”

“Cas... I’ve always been-“

“What does that matter?”

“I-“

Dean closed his mouth again and took to staring down at the table solemnly, his eyes brimming.

“There is a woman waiting for you in the city. Many even. And you are here with me. Do not lie to me, Dean.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re scared. I know. I know you don’t understand how you can feel for a man. I was scared too. That was the first time I ever...” He looked away when Dean refused to soften at that, and instead knotted his fists together on the table.  It was a struggle to retain the necessary evenness in his voice when he spoke again. “And I’m sorry.  I should have explained this much earlier, and not let you be so subject to fears that what you desired was corrupt. I won’t... I won’t touch you again, if that’s what it takes. If you don’t want it. But don’t hide from me, Dean. Do not lie to yourself and go away.”

“Cas, I-“

The feathers of Castiel’s wings bristled in irritation and frustration. Dean’s arms were crossed, and he was avoiding Castiel’s gaze furiously, biting his lip. A muscle in his jaw was jumping furiously.

“You know I will give you whatever you need – whether that’s everything or nothing. I want you, whatever that means. I’m _yours_.”

Dean stiffened at the words and froze. When Dean met Castiel’s eyes, he was visibly trembling.

“Don’t  say those things.”

“What? That I’d touch you? Don’t be afraid of it. It need not happen, if you wish.”

“No. No.... that you’re... that you’re _mine_. That you want _me._ I can’t.”

Castiel froze and cocked his head to the side, fingers thrumming on the table anxiously.

“I’m... you’re an Angel. And you’re so... pure. We can’t-“

His voice cracked.

“ _Dean_.”

Castie was around the table in the blink of an eye, and his arms moved to encircle Dean protectively, but Dean flinched away from the touch.

“I’m filth, alright? I’ve pissed my life away on women and liquor and bad company. I’m not educated, or clever or brave. I killed my men. I’ve – I’ve killed so many men. And I’ve killed Angels too. Or I’ve hurt them. I’ve killed your kind, and I _liked_ it.”

“Dean.”

“I’m a coward. I have nightmares every night, and I shake every second I’m on the Road. And I-“

The layer of tears that had been brimming at the edge of Dean’s eyes breached the surface on his right, and a solitary tear dropped down his face, until it was caught by the protrusion of his cheekbone, sliding down it to run alongside his nose and down across the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t even know why... If I could I’d hide away forever and stop all of this. I’d hide here with you and let them all die on the Road just so I could stay safe and warm in this house. I’m selfish. I’d choose Sam and you over any of them. I’d betray my own people.”

Castiel gripped onto Dean’s shoulder and this time Dean didn’t push him off.

“But Cas, _you_. You save them all. You’d give your life for any of them, not matter what the cost. You did for me – a _fool_ , who let his mean get burned and torn apart and didn’t know enough to stop it.”

When Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him into his shoulder, Dean fell there weakly.

“Everything about you is so... beautiful, Cas. I live in the dirt and filth and blood. I’m unclean. And you’re light and purity. I’ll corrupt you, Cas. I have already. I’ll ruin you.”

“Dean, _no_.”

“If I touch you, I’ll-“

“Stop.”

“I-“

“Stop.”

Dean crumbled properly against Castiel’s body then. He went limp and heaved in deep and uncomfortable breaths and his arms tentatively wound around and underneath Castiel’s armpits to clutch at his shoulders with tight fingers.

“Cas, I don’t want-“

“Dean, _listen to me_.”

Dean gasped against the Castiel’s shirt and nodded against his chest.

“You are the most beautiful piece of creation I have ever seen.”

Dean stuttered and breathed out heavily and Castiel felt the warmth of his breath spread across his chest in small shudders.

“I don’t just mean your body, although I want that part of you desperately. Every aspect of you i... remarkable. Your care for your brother. Your care for your men and your city. Dean, you are light and vibrant and magnificent. When you smile, I-... you can’t even contain yourself. It’s... blinding.”

Dean went weak against him and Castiel pulled him closer.

“I have been alive for over one thousand years, Dean. I have seen everything and every aspect of humanity. But what I have seen in you is new and magnificent. You are the most perfect aspect of my Father’s creation and I would... worship you, as I worship him. You are as close to him in any aspect of creation I have ever seen.”

Dean shook against him now, and clutched closer until Castiel could feel his nails through the fabric of his clothing.

“You will not convince me otherwise.”

At Dean’s lack of response, Castiel tentatively raised his hand and slowly ran his fingers lightly through Dean’s hair, willing Dean to relax and breathe underneath his touch.

It was true, all of it, even though he’d never felt the courage to think it, let alone vocalise it. But he knew it was true – the reason that he’d been so willing to nearly throw it all away for the sake of a stranger, and ever since his life and thoughts had revolved solely around him. Dean was... he was faith incarnate. His supposedly wayward character was only dressing to hide his true nature – a distraction to disguise from a purity the world without God would otherwise seek to corrupt. He was untouched, divine and magnificent. And even without his Grace to witness Dean’s true face, he knew, beneath the touch of his hands, that his soul would be the purest and most magnificent he had ever seen.

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice was hollow and his eyes were wide as he looked up at Castiel. Gently, Castiel raised his hand and let his thumb run across Dean’s cheekbone so that Dean’s eyelids flickered and the features on his face, so tight and carefully held, slowly unknotted and released until they sat properly again and formed the beautiful picture Castiel was used to seeing.

“It’s alright now. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

Dean nodded and raised himself slowly. Castiel stepped away and allowed Dean to stumble alone to the pile of furs in the corner. He looked back at Castiel questioningly, eyes half-lidded, as though he’d been relaxing in his bed for hours, but Castiel merely waved him on.

“Not unless you wish it.”

Mouth slightly open, Dean nodded, brow furrowing slightly, and he commenced stripping. Castiel turned away until he heard Dean settle in the bed, and only then did he carefully approach Dean and withdraw the fur that had been left next to it from the previous nights, upon which he usually slept.

Dean didn’t protest when he dragged it to the centre of the room, but Castiel felt his eyes upon him as he laid it out and curled in on himself – “like a cat” – Dean said, and wrapped his wrings around himself. Before he covered his eyes, he looked up, to witness Dean watching him sleepily. He was wrapped carefully in the rug, so that his body was eclipsed from Castiel’s gaze, and he stiffened a little under the gaze. But, still, and the thought kept Castiel warm on what was otherwise a chilly night after the bright sunshine of the day, he was smiling.

...

It wasn’t morning when Castiel awoke. It was still dark, and the screaming was distant, but present throughout the night. Dawn was still hours away. It took Castiel a moment to realise why he was awake, for he always slept properly throughout the night since the nightmare had stopped and he was accustomed to the sounds of the forest, even when the Angels were closer. It wasn’t until his skin lost some of its sleep-induced numbness that he realised what was happening,

Slowly, and tentatively, fingers were ghosting through the feathers at the tip of his wings. The touch was light, and barely there, and Castiel might not have felt it but for the tremble that racked them.

“Dean?”

Castiel whispered the question, although he didn’t know why he did. Perhaps it was just that the touch was so soft and private, that it felt like even sharing it with the cottage’s surrounding breached its intimacy.

“Is this alright?”

Dean’s whisper was even lighter than Castiel’s, and where he usually growled through his words, there was a husky tone to it.

Castiel inhaled carefully, deeply to calm the now familiar burn that was racing quickly through his bloodstream. It wasn’t the time. Whatever Dean needed – he needed to keep calm.

Still, he couldn’t keep the desire out of his voice when he breathed out the answer, for as he spoke, Dean’s fingers ran a little deeper into the down, so that they found the root of the feathers and brushed the thin unexposed skin there: “Yes.”

Beneath his wings, Castiel’s fingers curled into the fur and clutched tightly, squeezing as though he could withhold his want by doing so. Despite the tensing of his wings and body beneath his touch, Dean proceeded, running his fingers further up the wing and almost massaging the skin beneath the feathers, with tiny repetitive strokes. As Castiel started to shiver like Dean’s fingers, the touch was stronger, and Dean replaced the touch of fingers with his entire palm, which he ran down the radius bone of the wing until it reached the tip. With every stroke he started the touch higher and higher, until he reached the coracoid that attached the wings to Castiel’s back. When his palm graced the tight muscles, Castiel couldn’t restrain the hitch in his breathing.

“Sore there?”

Castiel only exhaled heavily in response as Dean gripped the base more carefully and started to knead his fingers into the muscles there, pressing at the knots and buildup that had accrued there after hundreds of years of carrying the heavy wings that were not made for a human silhouette. It was painful, having gone so long untouched – his siblings had assisted each other before they had changed, for the joints always became stiff and tense – but there was a feeling that had never been there before.

It wasn’t like the burn before, although that was zinging through his body in every other aspect. The pain and ache was almost entirely overwhelming, and Castiel’s shakes of pleasure turned into something of a different kind. But beneath that, there was a feeling that obscured the aching part of the touch that made it unpleasant. It was... he didn’t know. But it was comfort, and kindness and unafraid.

When Dean’s lips pressed to the part where the joint connected with his spine though, the burn obfuscated every other aspect.

_Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean._

All Castiel could pronounce under the mountain of physical sensations that was all but crushing him was a stifled preen.

Dean’s kisses trailed across his back to the other joint, where he sucked on the skin that covered the joint lightly. The kisses weren’t like the tight touches before – Castiel could feel the light trail of saliva that the kisses left behind, and the tiny traces of Dean’s tongue on his skin.

“ _aaah_ , Dean. Not-“

He felt Dean’s mouth move from his back and the shift of his body around to where Castiel had nestled his head into the furs. When Castiel rose his head to look at Dean in the darkness, he felt the touch of Dean’s trembling fingers to his face as he sought him out.

“I want to.”

Castiel’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt his whole body shiver involuntarily. Dean’s grip on his face tightened in response.

“Are you sure that-“

Dean’s other palm found his face and at once he surged forward and his lips met Castiel’s. They were loose and wet like in the river, and Castiel felt his mouth open under them almost immediately. Dean smiled against his lips, but acquiesced quickly and slid his tongue into Castiel’ mouth where they meet in a soft, tentative dance.

The burn was there, but it was slower this time, and both were a little careful, initiating touches and tastes tentatively. As they kissed, Castiel slowly pulled himself up, so that his head wasn’t twisted to awkwardly, and he could properly meet Dean’s lips and respond. Even though this wasn’t the first time, Castiel found himself making small errors- their teeth met at points, and at times he forgot to breathe properly and had to pull himself away from Dean to gasp in air. Dean didn’t seem to mind at all though, and he only kissed Castiel deeper and slower. As Castiel began to breathe more heavily, Dean responded in kind with little noises of his own – soft breaths and tiny groans at the back of this throat – and he pressed closer and closer to Castiel until his arm was slung across the small of Castiel’s back, where his palm rubbed at the bare skin insistently.

When Dean pulled away from Castiel, their mouths parted with a wet noise. Dean rested their foreheads together and moved his hands from Castiel’s back to his chest, where he slowly ran his fingers across Castiel’s chest, leaving lines of light on Castiel’s skin.

When Dean’s fingers descended to Castiel’s stomach, Castiel heard his sharp intake of breath and he pulled his forehead away from Dean’s and stared at him through the darkness.

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“Cas, you feel... I, uh...mmph”. He avoided the strangeness of praising another man’s body with leaning forward and kissing lightly at Castiel’s lower lip. The satisfaction was there though, and Castiel couldn’t help but let his lips twitch lightly against Dean’s own as a silent acknowledgment that the unspoken compliment pleased him.

Slowly, and gingerly, Dean twisted their bodies so that Castiel was forced to slowly lower himself back against the fur. Castiel flattened his wings as carefully as possible, but it was still uncomfortable to lie upon the joints. Nonetheless, he said nothing, not wanting to break the spell. When Dean lay him properly against it, he twisted to, and placed himself so that his weight was braced above Castiel, and the tips of their noses touched. Gently, and with short, hitched breaths, Dean lowered his body, bit by bit, against Castiel’s. He left his centre until last, letting one of his legs slide between Castiel’s first.

They kissed for a long while before Dean finally lowered his centre, and when he did so, Castiel felt adrenalin pulse in one burst through his whole body. Dean was...

“Is this...?”

Castiel breathed carefully through his nose quickly and urgently.

“I- sorry, Cas-“

Dean jolted backwards quickly and immediately removed his pelvis from against Castiel’s, moving to roll away.

“Cas, I-“

Castiel seized Dean and pushed him down roughly, and rolled himself so he lay mimicking Dean’s position above him. Then, just as carefully, he lowered himself against Dean, and this time he was satisfied to hear Dean’s sharp intake of breath as he realised Castiel’s physical response to his proximity.

Dean’s voice was almost a hiss:

“Casss.”

“What do you want, Dean?”

“I... _uhhhh_.”

Castiel mimicked Dean’s gasp as Dean raised his pelvis and pressed himself up against Castiel, matching their hardnesses against one another. And _oh God_. Just as carefully, Dean lowered his pelvis, but Castiel chased him, almost involuntarily, and used the floor beneath them to press slowly, but even harder, against Dean until they both exhaled heavily against one another’s mouths. Castiel hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath.

When their breathing settled, and Castiel trusted himself to speak, he whispered his words into Dean’s mouth: “are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

Castiel acquiesced with a tiny withdrawal and a roll of his hips until he met Dean with a hard press once again. It didn’t draw the same reaction as the first contact, for he had barely moved atop Dean, but so close and so warm and so satisfied, it was hard to withdraw, even for a moment.

Still, he tried, and on the second roll, he made sure to withdraw a little further and properly align himself against Dean, so when he met him again, they met each other properly. And Dean tipped his head back with a quiet sigh.

“Is... is that right?”

Castiel hated the nervousness in his voice, and the uncertainty in it – he sounded like a child. Utterly terrified but desperate to continue. Dean pressed up harder against him in response, a tight little mewl escaping from his lips.

“Yeah. That’s... _oh_... that’s really good, Cas.”

Castiel felt his lips twitch into a grin that didn’t really befit the intensity of the situation, as the tiny little roll of his hips sent Dean into distraction. He knew it was inept, really. His movements were shuddery and careful, and calculated rather than impulsive. When Dean pushed against him, it was... it was a hundred times better. Slow, beautiful, technical rolls that maximised the length of contact and pressure, so that it was almost too long, too good, and it pushed Castiel to a realm of pleasure he would have otherwise been afraid to lose himself to. But Dean didn’t seem to care that Castiel was uncertain. His arms wound up to clutch at Castiel’s back, pinching into the skin beneath his shoulderblades, and sliding beneath the skin and the coverage of his wings, pressing his fingertips into the flesh lightly.

It was an equivocal experience. On one hand, Castiel’s body burned with more ferocity than he’d ever understood it could. It far exceeded the feelings that his brothers and sisters had described to him, and he felt at any moment like he might combust beneath the sensation. But he was racked by self-consciousness too. An awareness at all times of his uncertainty, and consciously planning where to map out on Dean’s body next – tentative and uncertain as to where he was to travel.

Beneath him, Dean was the opposite. He raised his head and nosed at Castiel’s throat, breathing out little gasps beneath him, and planting messy, sucky, distracted kisses there when they came close enough to each other. And despite the erratic nature of the way Castiel moved, he timed himself perfectly, correcting Castiel’s errors on each roll, so Castiel felt the delicious push of Dean against every part of him.

Despite his own strange clinical awareness of the circumstance, Castiel was first to lose himself to it. He stuttered against Dean, and his hips began to shudder of their own accord, so that he lost control over eliciting Dean’s little gasps, and Dean took over – raising his pelvis and rubbing along Castiel slowly and deliberately, with a pressure that was almost painful, until Castiel’s whole body tensed and he fell awkwardly on top of Dean.

Dean didn’t laugh though, or even respond to the absurdity of the circumstance. He merely pulled Castiel closer and pressed himself against him more insistently, slowly dragging himself along Castiel, as Castiel pulsed and he became embarrassingly aware of the stickiness under his clothes. And moments after Castiel had ceased, and he became aware of the sweat on his brow and on his hands, he felt Dean tense momentarily beneath him too, before his whole body went limp and he sighed in a low whistle. Dean’s lips quickly returned to his to drag at the skin slowly, similarly making the most of every slow touch with a sensuous delicateness, that lead Castiel to tremble lightly against him, even though the rest of his body went calm and loose, enjoying the tiredness after such a rush of sensations. Dean removed one hand from beneath Castiel’s wings and brought it to Castiel’s cheek, angling his head slightly to the right, so that their lips fit together in a new way and their noses slotted in beside on another. Dean kept his mouth closed, but used the position to slide closer to Castiel, pressing his nose right into Castiel’s cheek and sighing at the pressure of the kiss. They stayed like that for some time, until Dean eventually withdrew enough that they could breathe out against one another, although a thin line of spit still hung between them as a reminder of what had passed. Dean let his nose slide along Castiels, closing his eyes and letting his breathing even out as he continued the feather light touch, blowing his own delicious taste across Castiel’s face and teasing him with its reminder.

Castiel could still not relax, with every touch of Dean’s electrifying him like a burst of lightning, forcing his heart to pump viciously at his chest to remind him of the fact that he was experiencing these sensations as a human, with all five senses, rather than in a fevered imagining. Dean smiled as he moved across Castiel’s skin to plant kisses against his cheek and down to the corner of his mouth.

“Go back to sleep, Cas.”

Castiel swallowed lightly before opening his mouth, noting the sticky noise it made to do so, speech having been so long foregone in this moment. “It’s hard while you’re there.”

Dean laughed lightly against Castiel’s neck as he descended there, letting every kiss become lighter and shorter, until his touches where phantom ones that Castiel’s fevered and hopelessly alert skin could barely register, so exhausted was it of feeling so intensely. “I promise I’ll be here in the morning, and I’ll kiss you again then. Go to sleep.”

“One more.”

Dean dropped his nose into Castiel’s shoulder to laugh against his skin again, and as he opened his mouth to breath out the sound, his teeth lightly grazed the skin there. Castiel shivered at the sensation, but Dean ignored it in favour of twisting his head underneath Castiel so that their lips could meet once more in a light, tentative press, before he lay back and slowly twisted his body so that Castiel was forced to slide off it and lay on his side. Dean kept his eyes on his as he did so, and once Castiel was properly positioned, he slid forward so that his legs brushed against Castiel’s, and his forehead pressed against his.

“Sleep now, Cas.”

Castiel smiled with the absurdity of it, that he could force himself into a state of such relaxation after so much had transpired, but he nodded earnestly for Dean and let Dean take his arm and sling it over his waist, lightly brushing at the bare skin there that Castiel had been careful to avoid touching without Dean’s permission. Dean did the same with his own arm and slung his there with less care, trailing one index finger lightly across the small of Castiel’s back, which made his pelvis curl forward involuntarily.

Dean snickered and moved his forehead against Castiel’s so that it was tucked slightly higher, and the tip of his nose fitted in just by the end of Castiel’s eye socket at his brow, and his breath ghosted across Castiel’s cheek, closing his eyes and murmuring quietly, “rest time now,” before letting his breathing go even and slow.

Castiel ignored the command in favour of simply wrapping himself around Dean and looking down at his bare chest to survey what was visible of his body – utterly incredible and rapturous, and the task of committing to memory every little curve, pucker and beautiful imperfection occupied most of Castiel’s morning, until Dean rolled backwards. Castiel saw then, that Dean had no more engaged in sleep than he had, for his eyes were still as bright as they had been , and his cheeks a little flushed with the warmth of being pressed close to Castiel, and perhaps the small embarrassment of knowing what Castiel had been doing, and adoring it. They stared at one another for a small moment, before Dean took hold of Castiel’s jaw and pulled him close, pressing his lips tightly against Castiel’s and holding him there, as though he would pour out whatever had engaged his mind for the past hour into Castiel through the kiss, before pulling back, with a small smile, and dropping his head back to the furs, where he lay on his side, watching Castiel fondly, face burning beneath his freckles.

 

 

 


	18. Do Not Neglect

** CHAPTER SEVENTEEN **

** 1425 **

At some point, he did fall asleep, for when he woke, it was to Dean kissing him with fervour, his tongue tracing the outline of Castiel’s lips and his hands pulling at Castiel’s face, as though he could pull them together into one being, and that were the most desirable outcome imaginable. Even sleep-addled, Castiel met Dean’s touch with as much enthusiasm as he offered, opening his mouth and letting his tongue dance with Dean’s and revelling in the slightly stale taste of him in the morning. It didn’t matter that it was less delicious than the night before, for whatever was lost in flavour was made up for by the fact that it meant Castiel knew that Dean had not left him for the duration of the night and had remained by his side, curled around him, awaiting the recurrence of this moment.

Empowered by the thought, Castiel quickly slid atop Dean and delved into his mouth, enjoying the light _oof_ sound that Dean made as he was forced to bear Castiel’s weight momentarily, and the fact that whatever discomfort he was causing only made Dean more boisterous, for he clawed at the back of Castiel’s neck to pull him closer and bit at his bottom lip, pulling it down and away from his teeth.

“You’re very perky this morning, Cas.”

Dena grinned against Castiel’s mouth at his own joke, and Castiel took the opportunity to press his mouth deeper against Dean’s, so that Dean was forced to end the smile with a small noise. Castiel let out a satisfied noise of his own when Dean followed suit and tangled his hands in Castiel’s hair, tugging slightly to draw him closer and to change the angle of his head as he wished.

When Castiel left Dean’s lips to mimic the path of Dean’s lips that Dean had taken on his skin in the river and to the  flesh behind his ear - Dean’s mouth fell open and his eyes blew wide suddenly as he stared up at the ceiling.

“God, Cas, how am I going to leave today if you keep that up?”

Castiel ignored him in favour of twirling his tongue in light circles behind the ear. Dean  had kissed that point a few nights ago, and Castiel had remembered the spot, as a place that pressed him dangerously close to full lose of volition – Dean had been gentler and more teasing though. Castiel attempted to copy the movement, but the rising height in his belly, which spiked with every soft breath of Dean’s and the smack of their lips together, made him more urgent in his movements, and more desperate to take them further.

“Mmm...uh.” Castiel pulled away at the sound from Dean, quirking his head to the side and carefully running his eyes down the body of the man beneath him, checking for signs of uncertainty or distaste. “I’m sorry, am I doing that correctly?”

When Castiel pulled away, he watched Dean’s eyes fixate on his mouth and trace the line of spittle that hung between them, until Castiel pulled back sufficiently that it broke and disappeared from their vision. Dean let his eyes rake leisurely up Castiel’s face, eyelashes fluttering before he grinned playfully. “Cas, I haven’t really given much thought to what I’d rate your technique when it feels so goddamn good kissing you. Don’t worry about it.”

He brought his lips up to Castiel for a chaste peck, which turned into Castiel pressing him down against the nest again with the force of his lips, focussing on pressure rather than movement. Dean seemed to appreciate the strength of it, for he opened his mouth without request from Castiel and let their teeth clash together as he swallowed Castiel’s breath.

Their talk was silenced for a few minutes as they reiterated the declarations of the night before, in the warm light of the morning, with their bodies. Dean seemed ignorant of the change in the circumstance, and the implication of the declaration in the morning – he kissed Castiel comfortably, as though they’d been doing so for months already, but let his hands explore his body with eager veracity. At times, he would lose focus momentarily, and break them apart to let his eyes follow the path of his hands over Castiel’s chest and face, taking in what he had been unable to the night before.

On one occasion, as he ran his hands down Castiel’s chest, pressing his fingers into the grooves of the muscles there and tracing the scars of Angels’ claws, he let his eyes drift up to Castiel’s and stay suspended there, murmuring: “I can’t believe I would’a almost missed this. Such an idiot.” He silenced himself by pressing his lips to Castiel’s again and letting them drag slowly across Castiel’s until they fell off in a puckered expression.

It was different in the morning light – slower, more leisurely, even if Dean’s hands and lips were bolder, and with the sun beating on them through the window he was warmer beneath Castiel, and sweating lightly. And having finally sated an urge he hadn’t even properly comprehended he’d had, it was easier for Castiel to enjoy Dean’s proximity more in the morning for the simpler aspects – the peppering of freckles across Dean’s shoulders and the feel of the knobs where his collarbone ended, the dark frame of his eyelashes around his eyes and the way a brown ring curved in a wavy line around the pupil across the light green iris. While Dean had commenced their morning with a fervour, the laziness of the embrace soon befell him too and eventually he allowed himself to simply withdraw, and let Castiel witness him and run a thumb across a high cheekbone, attempting to feel out the freckles there.

“What made you come back?”

Dean didn’t respond for a moment, licking his lips and studying Castiel’s face above him, before turning his cheek to kiss the tip of Castiel’s thumb lightly and nervously.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about that.”

“Was it”, Castiel let his lip follow Dean’s mouth when he turned it back to look at Castiel, and he traced the outline of where the skin puckered out and turned red, “was it because of what we talked about last night?”

Dean sighed a little against Castiel’s thumb, and he bit his lip until Castiel removed it and settled back to sit above Dean, allowing Dean the space to speak freely, without his presence above him. Dean wriggled up on his elbows, letting the skin of his stomach fold in on itself.

“No. A little. I mean...”

Castiel placed his palm against Dean’s stomach, not to caress or startle him, but merely to placate him.  “I don’t mind, you know. I just want to know.”

Dean reached up and covered Castiel’s tentatively with his own, curling his fingers under Castiel’s palm and raising it slightly off his stomach. Castiel smiled at the gesture, and Dean breathed out softly under him. “I was... when you touched me like that... I got scared about how I _wasn’t_ scared. I’ve never... I’ve never cared about a man before, like that. And... I told you about what Garth said... at his wedding.”

“Yes.”

Dean smiled tight-lipped up at Castiel and squeezed his fingers around Castiel’s, with a nervous twitch.

“What he was saying... it all made sense all of a sudden. And I freaked out.”

“Because of...”

Dean nodded quickly once. “Because of what we talked about. And more too... because,” he sighed carefully, “because it made sense, and I didn’t understand how it could ever happen, I just...”

“It’s alright, Dean.” Castiel leaned over to him, and quickly gave a soft peck on the lips, pulling away slowly and enjoying the feel of his dry lips peeling away from Dean’s sticky ones. Dean’s eyes danced as Castiel pulled away from him. “You’re here.”

“I’ll keep coming back too, Cas. I promise. This is... it’s easy, just like Garth said it would be.”

He didn’t address the implication he was making, although he had shared Garth’s exact wordswith Castiel previously. It wasn’t just lust that Dean was talking about, or interim companionship. It was a grand declaration of implication, made with a nervous smile and a worried tremble, as though its hearer might discern its meaning. But Castiel let Dean stay silent on the matter, elated enough with the unspoken connection. Dean reached upwards this time, pressing his lips to Castiel’s and running a tongue along his lips teasingly before delving deeper when Castiel granted him entrance. One quick kiss turned into many, until Dean was sitting up fully, using his grip on Castiel’s neck and hair to pull into him further and letting their tongues twist together. When their teeth clashed, Castiel made to pull away in embarrassment, guessing that the unpleasantness of the click meant it was a technical error, but Dean only growled and pulled him back to him, using his teeth against Castiel’s lips and licking at Castiel’s own.

Eventually, the strain must have too much for his lower back and he pulled away, wincing, and Castiel responded by following him down until he lay back down against the nest. Castiel stopped short of following his mouth entirely, taking the moment to survey the flush of Dean’s cheeks, and the light sheen of sweat developing across the line of his forehead against his hair. Dean smirked as he watched Castiel  stare at him, although there was a softness there, not a jibe. “Well, Cas, now you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”

Castiel only answered by crashing their mouths together, and while the morning had been lazy so far, it quickly became athletic, as both men pressed against each other, panting into one another’s mouths as they rushed to relive last night’s intimacies in the warm sunshine, all the while looking at one another as though it were the simplest thing in the world. And it was, Castiel mused, when Dean threw his head back and Castiel placed his lips there, marvelling that Dean let him rake his teeth there with such trust, and the pleasure that it elicited was a strangled gasp that became caught in Dean’s throat when he saw Cas watching him – it was simple, yet remarkable, all at the same time.

...

Despite the night previously, or that morning for that matter, Dean was anxious to preserve his modesty at the river. They took turns washing, murmuring to one another while their backs were turned. Having packed to stay two weeks, Dean had plenty of other clothes to wear while he left his  soiled ones with Castiel to wash and dry, and he lent some to Castiel too, saying he was welcome to keep them.

With the morning wasted, they had to pack quickly, and Dean scarcely had time to peck Castiel on the lips from atop Impala as a farewell – the only tiny reminder since they had left the nest that something had changed between them.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you back to the City?”

“I’m sure.” Dean grinned and bumped their noses together before he sat back up atop Impala properly, and adjusted his sword at his waist. “I’m going to have to travel overnight to make it there in time, and you’re just going to distract me. If you can scatter some of those supplies in a few cave sanctuaries, that’ll give us more time together when I next see you.”

Castiel nodded quickly and looked back to the cabin, where they had spent some time arranging the supplies into piles and noting which would be placed in which hide on the map Castiel had copied from Dean’s. The task still remained largely unperformed, despite Dean’s promise to his commander, but it seemed he was casual about the realisation of the goal, and perhaps prepared to draw out its performance to enable more time away from the city.

“When will that be?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows as Dean moved his lips around his smile, eventually licking them and quirking his mouth to the side.

“When I sneak out of the city six nights from now, and meet you in the forest. In that little hut you made by the entrance.”

There was a little bit of pride in Dean’s voice that it made him seem swollen somehow, and his smile sounded in it.

“Are you sure you’ll manage that?”

Dean shrugged and shifted atop Impala, settling himself in properly in the saddle and lowering his heels so that he was pressed firmly into its stirrups. “I won’t be due to leave Ardus again for at least another week or so. I can spare a night away, at least. And once I’m on the Road, I might not see you for longer – the next route is all the way to Bazanne. Probably two weeks each way. ”

Dean looked immensely apologetic  as he explained his schedule – this journey being something which Castiel hadn’t really heard about. He supposed it would likely be the time when Dean had assumed he would be establishing hides within the forest, giving him reason to volunteer for a longer trip. He hadn’t anticipated that things would have changed on this visit. Castiel, for his part, was unperturbed and unsure of the necessity for apology. Dean had tasks to do, and obligations, and they had to be accorded precedence where necessary.

“How would you leave the city?”

Dean itched at his ear as Impala jostled beneath him. “I know the Chief Guard. He’ll let me out. I’ll think of some excuse.”

Castiel ambled forward to reach out and stroked his hand across Impala’s coat. Beneath his touch, she quivered with anticipation of the exercise and the impending rush through the forest. “I’ll wait there, if you wish. But I won’t mind if you cannot get away.”

“I will, Cas. Promise.” Dean winked at Castiel atop Impala and twitched on her reigns so that she turned away from him. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Castiel laughed lightly with Dean, as he kicked Impala into a trot, and held their gazes for a moment longer before Dean turned to watch the path ahead of him and made haste back to his city.

...

Deans’ journey back to Ardus was quick – Impala was happy to run day and night, and they were lucky to avoid any attention – the screams being centred closer t the centre of the forest. Cas’ doing again, Dean supposed, and he smiled when he thought of being so protected. Even as a soldier, and Captain, it was a nice feeling, to know that someone was watching out for him. Someone was prepared to pick him up if he fell, and thought no lesser of him for the possibility. Maybe it was because it was the first time, since he’d been a child that he’d felt that security. Sam was there for him always, of course, but he was the younger brother. No matter how big or smart Sam grew, it would always be Dean’s job to take care of him. And he could never ask his brother to fulfil that role for him, no matter how hard things would get. He had more than one lifeline now – a team. The thought was buoying and warming.

The gates opened fairly promptly, despite his late arrival, and when news of his return broke, a number of his men skipped out on their training of the morning to escort him to the Brown Bear for a few tankards of ale, the place now minus its finest wench (which the men bemoaned with a song of their own creation – never to be repeated in front of Garth, they frantically  made him promise after Dean raised an eyebrow). By the time Dean made it home Sam had heard the news of his arrival broken, and had prepared their dinner. Ruby sent her best regards from her bedchamber, and hoped Dean would have the time to see her before he left for the Road again, or at least, so Sam said. He also explained that things were going well now that Ruby was better rested, although she was becoming nervous about the day of their child’s arrival.

“These women’s secrets, Dean, they’re so tight-lipped about it all. When the midwife came the other day, she asked me to leave the room. And when I came back, Ruby looked like she’d eaten a rotten fish.”

Dean chortled. It was a strange thing, that Sam being so intellectual and so cultured, was still left to see the beginning of life itself as so mysterious. Dean, from a decidedly less couth existence inside Ardus and out, was well aware of what might have turned Ruby’s stomach, and utterly certain that it was not worth repeating to Sam. Ruby had likely not disclosed the particulars for fear of his mortification and disgust, and Dean certainly wasn’t ready to receive the wrath that might accompany the shattering of the illusion.

“She told me that she wants to name the baby John, if he’s a boy. Can you believe that?”

Dean smiled lightly and reached across the table to cut himself another slice of bread from the fresh loaf Sam had purchased for the occasion. “Yeah, she ran it by me first.”

“And you said yes?”

Sam had paused with a bite of his meal mid-way to his mouth and watched Dean incredulously. Dean let his bottom lip slide out from below his upper one, and shrugged, discharging quickly the intense appreciation in Sam’s gaze. “I mean... yeah, I thought it was a nice gesture.”

Sam raised his eyebrows lightly and finished off the bite of his meal, contemplating Dean carefully as he chewed it over – likely far too much teeth grinding for a boiled vegetable. Dean stared him down for a moment before he dropped his gaze to where he fingered his bread, pulling off little morsels and twisting them into balls.

“Ruby, you know... she’s alright. The fact that she wants to pay tribute to our father... well, it shows she’s got more in her head than pleasing the Empress and fitting in with court’s fashions. And that’s what I want for you Sammy. If she’s willing to prioritize you, well...”

He trailed off feebly and avoided another questioning look from Sam by taking a bigger bite of his bread than was necessary. And, loathed to eject it, he was forced to swallow it in one massive gulp, that made his throat strain with the effort and left it aching afterwards.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean only nodded gruffly, taking another bite of his bread and chewing it over contemplatively, before he looked up and realised Sam was still staring at him fondly, eyes brimming slightly over the candle that lit their table. He swallowed hastily.

“Don’t need to thank me. My fault for being an idiot. Should’a known what love’s really about.”

Sam tilted his head sideways in a silent question, and smirked. There was a beat, before both of them fell about in a fit of laughter. The water in Sam’s eyes did brim over a bit then, although thankfully it was more from amusement than anything else. As he wiped from beneath the lids of his eyes, he looked at Dean across the table and shook his head lightly.

“So, when did you get all these ideas about love? Some girl in Rehin finally turned the tides?”

Dean paused momentarily, mid-light chortle, and held his breath.  As Sam’s eyebrows raised expectantly, he shook his head quickly, and held out a waving hand in front of him to emphasize the gesture. “No, no... nothing like that,” Sam inclined his head forward in a clear statement of – _you’re lying Dean_ – but Dean brushed it off quickly, laughing it off as he always had when the idea had been far more improbable, “just... guess I’m growing sentimental in my old age. I’m figuring stuff out. Slowly.” He threw Sam a quick smile and looked back to his meal with a determined focus that the conversation couldn’t continue. Sam, mercifully, didn’t seem to pick up on it, and they dined in silence for a few minutes.

“Oh! Actually,” Sam burst forth as they were stacking their plates and preparing them for washing, “There was something else Ruby wanted me to tell you. The Princess - she wants to see you tomorrow.”

Dean paused momentarily in his cleaning activities and looked up at his brother, searching for an intimation of the further facts that he had failed to provide. “Huh.”

Sam shrugged and picked the plates from where Dean’s grip had frozen on them.

“Ruby says she’s been doing it with all the Slayers, recently. Visiting them when they’re in the city, well, having them visit her.”

“Oh.” Dean broke his statue’s position, in favor of brushing the last of their crumbs from the table to the floor. Sam continued amicably on his way towards the cottage’s exit. He left the door open as he took to sloshing the plates through the water out there, left for such purposes, calling through to Dean as he did so. “Ruby thinks she’s trying to get to know you all better, and understand the Road. I think the Empress asked her to start. Balthazar was in there the other day.”

Dean relaxed at that a little. The thought of a private audience with Lilith, whatever the purpose, was nervewracking enough. But if the meeting were merely a formality to educate the Princess as to the workings of the kingdom she might one day rule, that was less loaded – at least he knew the purpose.

 He would have to prepare and work through it as officiously as possible, and avoid staying around for Lilith’s odd little riddles and pretensions. Already he would be obliged to hurry through a few things to sneak out to see Cas, and he imagined an audience with Lilith would have the tendency to drag on.

Whatever the case, he was prepared to manage it. He’d promised Cas he would be there, and Cas had seemed dubious. That meant he _had_ to, just to show that Angel who was boss. For a moment, Dean’s mind went back to the image of Castiel above him, naked from the waist up and wings spread across the width of the cottage, shining in the mid-morning light with sweating, sleep-swollen flesh. Pressing down against Dean and making him writhe and jolt against the nest as his muscles spasmed at the shock of the pleasure that coursed through him.

 Who was he kidding? Cas was boss entirely. If it came to any kind of battle for dominance in the relationship, he’d concede to Cas in a heartbeat. Who could help but be floored by Castiel’s age, wealth of knowledge, and _power_ – even so constrained as he was.

God, _Cas_. How was it possible that he was allowed to call him _his_ now, and more still, that there was no terror in it. It was all simple and unequivocal, even though he knew that what he was thinking about was the kind of force that could move mountains. Goddamnit Garth and his wise-beyond-his-years spiel.

“Dean?”

“Hm?” Dean’s head shot up and he looked to see Sam watching him carefully, a stack of clean dishes in his hands, just shy of breaching the threshold back to the cottage.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh... _yeah_.” Dean shook his head a little as though dislodging some fog within it and threw Sam a confident smile. “ Just, uh, excited about the Princess is all. Audience with royalty and all of that – pretty important stuff.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment, other than: “Well, behave yourself.”

“What? I do!”

There was a pause before they both guffawed at that and Dean conceded his past indiscretions with a small, baleful shrug. Sam ambled past him to place their now clean plates in the small wooden box they used for storage, and gave him a light shove on the shoulder as he walked past. “Well, I’m hoping your lady’s knocked some sense into you since then.”

He ignored Dean’s protestations, except for a few disbelieving _yes, I believe you_ s until Dean was left floundering in the centre of the room, and Sam took his leave to return to his pregnant wife in the castle, smirking and running his fingers across the beard that was slowly taking shape there in a way that left his brother fuming.

...

Castiel was busy in the days following Dean’s absence. He commenced by setting up a trail of fresh kills in the forest, leading in the opposite direction of Dean’s passage, ending with a massive stag which he hoped would keep the animals sated long enough that Dean could arrive in Ardus safely. The ploy was successful, for several days following too, and Castiel was able to move freely about the forest, depositing  and setting up a few sanctuaries in sites that Dean had identified. Most were merely nothing more than crevices in rock, or hollow trees, but they were enough to promise safety to one or two men if the warded carriages were to fail. Castiel made cool stores for the supplies, and etched protective sigils around the areas, leaving one line unfinished on one sigil, as agreed with Dean, in case he ever needed to make a quick escape himself. He wasn’t sure what kind of excuse Dean had given the men for this practice, but he had insisted upon it, and Castiel had obliged, knowing it would not be worth disagreeing with Dean when he was set on the idea.

In general, the trips were uninhibited, and with the Angelus distracted, Castiel was able to enjoy the process of flight above the forest more, stretching his wings properly in way he hadn’t enjoyed for some time, except for the short bursts of flight in the clearing with Dean.

It was on the third day though, in which that changed.

Castiel was creating havens along the side of the Road. These didn’t require supplies, but were instead meant as boltholes for men in need of a quick moment of respite in the heat of battle, or a place to send travelers in the event of a confrontation, so that soldiers could keep an eye on them, even in the midst of battle. He wasn’t too close to the road, but only a few hundred meters in, when his nose caught scent of something off on the air.

It was a putrid smell, and one that he had been unused to for quite some time, barring the night he had found Dean in the forest and brought him back to his house. It was thick, and burned, as though it had been boiled beyond recognition, and entirely rank. But beneath that, was a scent familiar to any living creature, which marked it for what it was – the scent of blood. Worse, of an Angelus, no less. Castiel tracked the scent quickly and quietly through the woods. It took him several miles to reach, during which time he retched at the side of the road as it odor swarmed his body through every orifice – entering through his nose and mouth first, then making his eyes burn, and puffing through his ears in gusts in a way that meant he could somehow taste it there too. Even one without Castiel’s senses would have known that they had reached the site of the demise, when he found the clearing in which the scent was originating, for there was something else concentrated here too, even worse than the smell itself – the residual presence of Death, and his invisible brand, that marked the place as one where the light had gone out on a creature. And that t had died screaming.

The death had occurred within the past few days – that was clear to Castiel, for there was rot too, and the earth fiercely attempted to smother the scent beneath dirt and rainwater. And, more obviously, little physical evidence remained.

Still, there were hints. The blood had been swallowed by the ground, and now the earth was swollen with it. With Castiel’s press of feet on the forest floor, it seemed to repeat the scent for him, in vile little burps, that made his empty stomach recoil and swallow itself in disgust.

 There were still marks of a struggle to – the scent of human blood and the sign of a weapon against a tree at the edge of the area, where it had been thrown off its course by a deflection and collided with the wood instead. Time had eroded the more detailed marks of the struggle on the ground – but there was evidence of multiple parties, and the Angelus’ claws had scraped massive chunks of dirt from the ground. There were a few feathers too, clearly dislodged in some kind of struggle, some hundred meters from the site, blown there by the wind in the days past.

Castiel was sure, from examination, that there would be a new human in Ardus, bearing the mark of a Slayer, although he could not make out from what was left of the area any of that man’s qualities. What struck him as odd was that there was no body onsite, despite the fact that the slaughter could only have occurred a few days ago. Regeneration could take far longer than that – and given the amount of blood that had flooded the area, he suspected it should have. Either the creature had died from the loss or from the infliction of some utterly grievous injury, or it had been killed previously, and its body had been defiled in some way to discharge the blood.

The party could have removed it, of course. But there was no sign of that either. And the blood was spread so thick that the creature must have lain here for some time to discharge it. Any party that had come upon the animal would surely have had wounded and would have been anxious to move away from an oncoming threat – this creature would not have died quietly, judging by the discharge.

The smell of the area soon grew too strong, and the puzzle to perilous - Castiel quickly departed. Dean would presumably be furnished with knowledge of this event, and he would likely have an explanation for what Castiel did not. Perhaps he might know too, why, even despite Castiel’s attempts to keep the Angelus further out in the forest, one had made its way so close to the Road in such a state that it had attacked a travelling group. Whatever had happened, it would require a modification to his practices to ensure the safety of those passing through. And Dean, with his increased travels through the forest. However often they both imagined themselves safer than they were, this was a terrifying reminder that things were not as safe as they had hoped for them, and they both had roles to play elsewhere for the kingdom.

The thought spurred Castiel on enough to continue with his tasks for the day, and he set up a bolthole not far from the site for any passing soldiers – it was an unscheduled one, but he assembled it in any case, knowing that the scent of their brother or sister’s blood might draw Angelus in the coming days, and a travelling party would be more at risk here than anywhere else in the forest. Before the end of the day, he had created three more, that covered around ten miles of road, and the setting sun marked the requirement that he return to his cottage. It was dark by the time he reached it, and eerily quiet as he made his way to the feeding post, with some leftover meet from the deer he had felled. The smell seemed to draw none that evening, which Castiel had anticipated, and as he made his way back to the cabin, the first shrill screech was heard above the treetops in the forest, as the Angelus returned to the site of their fallen comrade, and howled a medley of vengeance.

...

Lilith summoned Dean mid-morning the day he was due to meet Castiel in the forest. Ignoring the fact that Ruby had been incorrect in her prediction of the day, or that Lilith had simply not been bothered to keep to the appointment she had desired to make, Dean was testy about it nonetheless. Sam had made him swear to wear finery, rather than his usual training gear (he was scarcely out of  it otherwise, for none of the court’s garb could reflect its comfort), and he’d spent the whole morning wrenching himself into the creation. He’d had to wash carefully too, cleaning out all the dirt under his fingernails that Sam had said would offend the Princess, and cleaning his hair with a rough soap that left his skin feeling sticky and dry. It was kind of stupid, but Dean wasn’t a big washer. He liked smelling like the forest, and more still, he liked smelling like Cas. By now, the scent was indiscernible, even to him, but he liked to imagine that there was still a part of Castiel’s touch on him somewhere, and washing him away with the rough soap was somehow insulting – Cas smelled amazing, like fresh grass, clean air and, well, oily feathers , whereas the soap smelled like astringent.

Lilith had Dean brought to her private garden, and he was escorted there by one of the Palace’s runners – an eight year old kid who spent the entirety of the journey narrating for Dean his own account of Dean’s stay in the forest over Winter, which, apparently, had Dean slaying ten different Angels and training the rest to follow his commands. According to the child, Dean had even ridden an Angel, training the creature to swoop down upon its brother and sisters in order for Dean to deal the death blow . Dean was relatively silent as the kid danced around in front of him – all red hair, freckles, and buck teeth – and he gave him a silver coin for his troubles when the child lead him through to a private gate in the palace’s gardens, where two armed guards allowed him through.

“Thanks, Slayer!” The kid said, as he ecstatically took the coin and placed it reverently in his pocket with such care that Dean had a feeling it would never be spent. With a quick glance at the guards, and an internal _oh, why not?_ he ruffled the kid’s hair once before walking across the threshold into Lilith’s garden. The kid didn’t even bother to hide his whoop as the doors closed between them and Dean was left alone in the garden.

It was a manicured thing – pretty, in its own way – with a lurid collection of flowers perfectly pruned and maintained to keep a certain kind of attractive uniformity. The path was made of pebble, and it crunched – awkwardly audible – as Dean made his way to the Princess, dressed in green today, where she was seated at its centre, in a small cushioned seat. She rose as he arrived and gave a small curtsey of greeting, which Dean replicated with a bow, before she gestured to  him to take a seat on the (un-cushioned) stone bench beside her. Upon his arrival, an attendant immediately rushed forward, with a platter of fresh fruit and two goblets of wine. Dean waited until Lilith took the first sampling – a ripe grape, which she bit in half while watching him carefully – before he took a swig of his drink, and gagged on the unnatural sweetness of the concoction. Lilith took his difficulty in swallowing as admiration: “Most wonderful, isn’t it? A special blend that my Father commissioned our winemakers to create, when I was born.”

Dean nodded lightly and took another fake swallow, immediately following it up with a fresh slice of apple to chase down the taste of the first gulp, with left his mouth feeling fuzzy.

“I am pleased to see you looking so well after your travels, Slayer.”

Dean swallowed his apple slice and smiled embarrassedly. “Thank you, Princess.”

“I hear you put yourself in great peril for our city.”

Dean shrugged and set his goblet down on the table. Lilith tracked the movement with her eyes, but didn’t betray any sentiment at that. Instead she merely returned them to his face, and tilted her head, surveying him with a coy smile.

“In duty to you, my Princess.”

She giggled lightly and took the second half of her great, chewing it as she ruminated over the garden, pursing her lips to avoid the escape of juice. He watched her momentarily, marveling at the utter training of the gesture, so prim in its performance, but he was forced to look away when she caught his eye and arched her eyebrow in question.

Gruffly clearing his throat, he took a slice of orange this time, and turned to look out at the garden, and the pond in front of them, in which brightly colored fish swam in the depths, daring to the surface when an unsuspecting insect made temporary home there.

“Do you admire my garden, Slayer?”

“It’s nice, Princess.”

She giggled in surprise, and when he turned to her, her eyes were wide an incredulous. “Nice, you say?”

Dean stared at her for a moment, before he caught the mistake, and looked away at once. “I’m sorry, Princess. I meant that it is beautiful.””

Lilith laughed properly this time, the peal a long high note that rose above the manicured hedges and frightened a few birds from a nearby tree. “Oh, Slayer, there is no use pretending. I have caught you now.”

He was silent for a few moments before he turned back, expecting her reprimand, but her eyes were twinkling as she watched him, and her smile was wide. “Tell me, Slayer, what could be beautiful, when this is merely nice?”

She watched Dean for a few moments, before he stumbled over his words. “No, no, I’m sorry. This is lovely.”

In service to the statement, he stood and moved to the nearest bundle of flowers, spilling from a stone vase beside him. He bent over, and inhaled enthusiastically, which quickly turned to a cough when the sheer pungency of the flowers hit him. Horrified, he turned back, only to find Lilith once again besieged by laughter.

“Slayer, your attempts to lie to me do you credit, but you do so most terribly.”

She stood gracefully, and followed him over to the vase, lifting one of the more delicate buds in her hand and twisting it between her fingers. When she spoke her voice was softer, and far less teasing, although there was still no anger there: “Tell me, what beauty is it that captures your eye, when this cannot?”

She looked up and met his eyes carefully, and Dean swallowed once before recoiling slightly as he at once became aware that he had stood to close to her without invitation. He hid his step back with a twist, and looked out over the walls of the garden to the open sky above them. Lilith followed his gaze, stepping forward once as though a change of position might help her see better what was above them, so that she stood in line with Dean. They both watched the sky for a moment before she turned, smiling once again and beaming up at him.

“You know, Slayer, this is why I like you. You always surprise me. Come.”

She turned lightly and walked through the garden, her dress billowing out behind her with the speed of her movement.  Dean was stilted for a moment, but when she turned around and inclined her head, he quickly moved to follow her as she lead them through to the castle’s rooms. They carried out the trip in silence – Lilith leading them through guarded door after guarded door, with a few coy smiles and glances back to Dean. Eventually, they began ascending the stairs of a tower, which coiled around its centre in their passage upwards. Dean was careful to keep a careful ways behind Lilith, for following him too closely brought him to eye level with her waist. The intimacy of the placement was somewhat embarrassing, so he moved in order that his eyes were more clearly focused on her feet, and the slippers that she padded up the stairs in. When they reached the door, Lilith opened it confidently. The gust of wind that immediately blew her perfectly assembled hair to the side let Dean know immediately of where they were. A second later, when he emerged, he was treated to the sight of the city and the forest as he had never seen it – from the ramparts of Ardus’ walls from which its archers patrolled the city.

Lilith turned back to him, smiling lightly. “This is what you meant, isn’t it Slayer? This is your idea of beauty?”

Dean didn’t even bother to respond, instead walking forwards towards the ramparts and surveying the forest as it gusted below him, the trees waving in coordination and swaying in rolls which raced towards the horizon. The expanse was magnificent, and incomprehensible, even though Dean had been amongst it for years, and travelled the paths that he saw weave out before him like veins across a throbbing heart.

This must be what Cas remembered seeing, in the days before it had been unsafe to rise to the skies as he used to. When he’d been able to follow the path of the wind as it led the body of the forest in a gentle choreography, invigorating it with a kind of sentience that gave it an almost human pulse.

It hit Dean like a kick in the gut to look on the forest so, and to comprehend then al that Castiel had been deprived of since the Fall – aside from everything else, to be forced to depart from this visage after years of enjoying it and conquering it by witnessing it from the sky – it was tragic, and unbearable. Standing above it, even with such admiration as he felt, Dean’s main thoughts suddenly became preoccupied with wishing he could have had Cas beside him here – and that he could have held him as he breathed in his home and witnessed its glory.

“There _is_ such beauty here, is there not?”

Lilith had walked back to where Dean stood, and leaned out across the ramparts with him, surveying the expanse before her. Her hair was entirely caught and unwound by the wind, so that it flew across her face, obscuring it and tickling at Dean’s cheek and nose as she leaned forward with him.

They waited a long few minutes, watching the sky, and a flock of birds skim across the treetops, settling in massive tree near the entrance to Ardus, with branches that reached at least fifty meters above the others. Eventually Lilith shivered a little, and they moved back towards the entrance to the ramparts, so that they were sheltered from the wind and she was able to extract the hair that had become caught in her mouth. She mustered as much dignity as she could, but the effect was altogether demeaning, and they found themselves laughing together against the wooden door, Lilith’s eyes alight and cheeks flushed with the exertion.

“It isn’t ladylike to say, but I come here often. It is a secret my guards keep for me.”

She laughed lightly and turned her face against the wall so that she was looking out through the ramparts again, face glowing. Dean didn’t respond but to follow her eyes, out to where he knew Cas was waiting for him, perhaps in that massive tree with the birds, where they would meet tonight, under the leafy ceiling, somehow made all the more magnificent from his perspective on it now.

“It is my secret place.” She turned back to look at Dean with a genuine smile, one that was far departed from her courtly smirk, and met his eyes. “Not now, at  least.” Dean nodded and reciprocated the gesture, before looking back out the forest, straining his eyes to see how far it reached – to Rehin and further, beyond Bazanne and to the mountains across which only those exiled ever crossed. They were barely visible from here, and  likely more figments of Dean’s imagination than real silhouettes. But nonetheless, he was awed by their magnificence, real or no.

“It would be my aspiration one day, that all should enjoy it. That we should not fear. That our kingdom could be a kingdom again, all of us united together.”

She stepped forward, and into Dean’s eyeline, a question in her posture and gaze. He watched her for a moment, as she waited expectantly for his answer.

“That is an admirable aim, my Princess.”

She nodded lightly and looked behind her, across the expanse again, keeping her hair pressed away from her face with both hands.

“I bemoan every day that it is so polluted, that the day is not yet upon us where it is a reality.”

Dean pursed his lips and watched the forest more, unwilling to answer the question. For, here on the ramparts, as far as he was concerned, Lilith was wrong.

In the sense that it was magnificent, it was also foreign. Watching as the trees rolled with the wind, it became evident just how powerful a creature it was – how untouched, in total – how distant, dangerous and mysterious. It was untamed, and that was the beauty of it – it obliged a quiet, unassuming existence that was harmonious with its accord, rather than one that demanded creature comforts and manicured existence. Certainly, it was overrun with the Angelus, but somehow, it tamed them nonetheless, allowing other creatures , like Cas, to live alongside them with their own aspirations. A delicate balance, but perhaps a true one. A fragile, insecure network that seemed to imitate perfectly the fragility of life in general – a microcosm that echoed creation itself.

Polluted? It was not.

“My Princess?”

The words were soft, and were almost carried with the wind. But the hint of the reedy voice alone was enough to startle both Dean and Lilith away from their survey of the forest and across the path of the ramparts, to gaze upon Alastair, dressed in casual training wear and a cloak which billowed behind him, and armed with a bow and arrow.

Lilith’s mask shot up again quickly, and she curtseyed once for Alastair – deep and perfect,  and he swept a bow of the same quality for her. She abandoned Dean at once to step forward, trilling out over the wind: “What a coincidence to find you here!”

Alastair looked over her shoulder to Dean, smiling in a way that suggested it was no coincidence at all. Dean merely raised his eyebrows at the odd aggression in the expression, and shrugged, rolling his eyes a little for Alastair’s benefit to express how he felt about being escorted by the Princess across the ramparts when there was work to be done. Alastair gave a silent cackle and turned his gaze back to Lilith.

“I returned this morning, my Princess, and I’ve been manning the ramparts with our men.”

Lilith turned back to Dean, her smile beaming as she proclaimed: “Alastair is such a fine protector of the city, is he not?”

Dean nodded once, momentarily perplexed by the informal use of the Slayer’s name. Lilith seemed to catch his expression, for her face dropped and she stepped away from Alastair quickly and embarrassedly. It was only then that Dean realized how close they had stood together in the first place to carry out their conversation.

Alastair shot Dean a blank look, before leaning over and quickly whispering something in Lilith’s ear. She kept her eyes on Dean for a moment, before she nodded quickly and at once stepped away. “Yes, of course, Slayer. I shall... inform my father of the... report at once.”

Alastair grinned from behind her at Dean, which only served to demonstrate that Lilith’s heightened tone of voice was in fact a result of her direct lie. “Slayer, will you escort me back to the Castle? I am required elsewhere this afternoon.” Dean looked away from Alastair quickly and nodded to Lilith once, and after a beat, offering his arm to her, which she took nervously, with a quick glance back at Alastair. He nodded once and turned back to the path behind him, moving to patrol the ramparts once again, and didn’t turn back to look at them, even though Lilith’s eyes followed him long after he left them until there was a wooden door between them once again.

...

** 2013 **

“Lilith was in love with Alastair? Then why was she...?”

Castiel looked up from where he had his gaze fixed on Greg’s hands beside him, to Sam, who watched him from across the room, hand still entangled in Jessica’s. Hi expression was quizzical, and brow furrowed in disbelief. “This is the Lilith who locked you in that tomb, right?”

“Yes. And no, she was not in love with him. Although she acted it rather well, I understood from Dean. He was utterly convinced after that meeting. It lulled him into a sense of security, as she wished.”

“What do you mean?”

That was Jessica, leaning forward and bringing Sam’s hand with her as she did so, to watch Castiel carefully as she twirled a long piece of hair between her free fingers.

“Lilith had plans that involved Dean, and she’d noticed that he hadn’t responded to her flirtations as she had wished. This was her second stratagem.”

“What, she’d figured out that he was with you?”

Castiel shook his head.

“I think at that point, she assumed it was Lydia that his attentions were directed towards. Immediately after that, she ‘accidentally’ revealed to her ladies that Lydia was pregnant. Word got back to Dean eventually, and I suppose she intended to end their liaison with that.”

Jessica’s draw dropped, as did Sam’s, in a perfect picture of mimicry. Even Bobby seemed momentarily floored by the revelation. “Lydia was _pregnant_?”

Castiel nodded mutely, blank at the implication of the revelation. “I believe Dean spoke to her the night after he returned from the forest with me, as he was about to leave for on that day in the ramparts. She told him that the child was her husband’s.”

“Just babies galore in this story.” Bobby seemed to bristle at the talk of children and at once stood up to pad his way through to the washroom. He closed the door, but Castiel still heard the sounds of him inside as he relieved himself. His exit seemed to jostle the group for a moment. Greg stood up beside Cas, and took orders for tea and coffee in a rough, slightly gravelly voice, before leaving for the kitchen abruptly. Jessica took the opportunity to take his seat, leaning in beside Castiel and squeezing his hand lightly. Sam watched, seemingly entirely unbothered by the gesture, and beaming as he watched Jessica across from him.

“Cas, I’m so happy that you and Dean got together.”

Castiel smiled lightly and looked towards the kitchen, where he could hear Greg bustling around as he made the drinks for the group. When Jessica started speaking his movements abruptly stopped for a moment, and when he proceeded, after she finished, he was a lot quieter, as though he was listening in.

“I was very happy too.”

She grinned and threw a happy glance at Sam, who smiled back, although he didn’t really seem to register their conversation at all.

“You both... you loved each other so much. I’m so sorry that... that it didn’t last.”

Castiel swallowed lightly and shuffled backwards on the couch, pressing his feathers against the back. Jessica moved to allow his wing room to spread out, and was polite enough not to lean back against it when he was done.

“Any time with Dean was enough, Jessica. I cannot regret it.”

Her smile turned sad, but she squeezed his hand nonetheless. “I know.”

They waited in silence for a moment, and from the kitchen, the sound of Greg laying out china for the group was evident. When he realized he was, in fact, the only audible presence, he seemed to freeze within the area, and no sound was heard until Castiel looked to Jessica, who raised her eyebrows and met his gaze.

“Is Mike irritated with me?”

Jessica blinked for a few moments, before turning back to look at the washroom, from which the sound of toilet flushing suddenly emerged.

“Oh. No, I don’t think so.”

Castiel stared at the door for a few moments, behind which Bobby grumbled and coughed indiscernibly.

His eyes flickered back to Jessica, who was watching him quizzically. “It appears he is… embarrassed? Or annoyed? I-“

Jessica let out a giggle in spite of herself and looked to Sam, who blushed and made a quick exit from the couch across from them, stumbling into the kitchen with no clear intention other than escape.

Castiel watched him leave with confusion, and then returned to look at Jessica, who was caught between blushing and giggling into her hand. She covered her face with both palms, but let her fingers part so that her eyes twinkled beneath them as she shook with her amusement beside him.

“Jessica?”

“Oh,” she swallowed and sniffed as though she’d been crying, wiping beneath her eyelids and phantom tears, “oh Cas, of course he’s embarrassed.”

Castiel stared at her for a moment, and another giggle threatened to erupt from her chest before she swallowed it down, with an amused smile.

“Why would he-?”

“What you told us about you and Dean. He’s embarrassed about that.”

Castiel looked back to the bathroom once, from which it appeared Bobby was shamelessly eavesdropping, for his breathing was evident right against the other side of the door.

“But…I,” Castiel turned back to Jessica, head cocked in question: “I only furnished you with the most minimal particulars.” He did not mention that in his mind he had relived it in its entirety.

Jessica laughed once and shook her head. “ _I know_. And thanks for that. Otherwise… tmi.” Castiel frowned at her again and she snorted, before looking back to the bathroom. “It’s not really what you told us, it’s just the way you told it.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled pitifully and put her hand on his knee. “It’s obviously a good memory for you, Cas.”

He squinted at her as though she might betray some other meaning, but she merely winked and leaned back on the couch as Sam made his entrance back into the room. “Don’t worry about them. You tell the story however you want.”

Sam appraised Jessica with wide eyes, before blushing even more furiously than he had before, and looking away pointedly. Jessica winked at Castiel again, although he missed the hidden joke. Nonetheless, they fell into an amicable enough silence.

Greg wandered back into the living room soon after that, drinks for all. When he arrived, Jessica made to stand up to give him back his seat, but he didn’t acknowledge her, instead choosing to move over and sit beside Sam, who seemed surprised but happy enough to move over for him, although he did meet Jessica’s eyes as he shuffled down the couch.

When he sat down, Greg took a long draught of his drink, before placing it on the table and leaning back against the couch. Castiel watched him until he was settled, and waited until Greg looked up and met his eyes. They only held for a second, however, before Greg looked away sharply and back to his hands. Castiel’s gaze slid to Sam’s, who shrugged, and imitated Greg by looking to his hands too. There was a pause, before Castiel looked to Jessica, who nodded for him to continue just as Bobby arrived back from the washroom and seated himself beside Greg.

Castiel cleared his throat quickly, noting that even that did not draw Greg’s gaze. Heart beginning to pound a little, he started to speak again, although his voice was a little scratchy with muffled worry: “Dean kept to his word to return to the forest that night...”

 

 

 


	19. Those Who Writhe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hello, my dearest, darlingest readers! I am so so so so so so so so sorry to have abandoned you last week. While I had a chapter ready for consideration and upload, I was befallen with the flu and bed-ridden until today. I made a few attempts to consider this chapter, and provide it to you all, but my brain was far too fuzzy for the exercise. Since this chapter is mostly smut and fluff, I wanted to make sure it was of a bearable quality, since it is the beginning of the end of Destiel joyfulness and loveliness.
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

** 1425 **

Castiel hoped with every part of his being that Dean would return to the forest that evening. He did so balefully, however, anticipating that the ferocity with which Ardus’ gates were guarded would prevent Dean’s meeting him. It was a pleasant surprise, however, to hear the sound of Dean padding through the forest to their agreed meeting place, as Castiel lay in the small shelter he had erected for himself beneath the tall tree from which he watched the gates.  Dean had clearly intended to sneak up on Castiel, perhaps as a surprise (a slightly odd notion given that their meeting was scheduled), which was aborted when he stumbled against a tree root in the dark. The sound was barely there, but it as was enough for Castiel to register. In any event, Dean swore loudly when he twisted his ankle enough such that his presence would have been made known to even the most feeble eared.

Castiel shuffled carefully from the shelter, taking care to keep his wings flat against his back, and straightening. A minute or so later, Dean emerged from behind a large tree, grinning: “Hey, Cas.”

They regarded each other for a few moments before Dean swore gruffly and crossed the distance between them, wrapping Castiel in a tight hug. For a beat, it was almost as if the intimacy of their last meeting was forgotten in the friendly gesture, but Dean soon dispelled that by letting his cheek press against Castiel’s, and then twisting his head so that the tip of his nose trailed along the skin there. He let it move there lightly, as things re-established themselves, and when Dean managed to remember to exhale, Castiel felt confident enough to complete the movement – turning his cheek so that their noses butted and then closing his eyes, and tracing his nose against Dean’s face until the movement brought their lips together.

The first moment was soft, and tentative all over again, until Dean sighed and opened his lips into the kiss, raising a hand and tangling it in Castiel’s hair, pulling him closer and tighter. They kissed for a long time, carefully but comfortably, in soft open mouthed presses and drags of lips – their tongues occasionally meeting lightly. When the strangeness of the movement seemed gone, Dean withdrew smiling – leaving his hand in Castiel’s hair – and pressing their foreheads together, inhaling carefully.

 “Bet you’re wondering how I made it out of the City.”

Dean’s voice was gruff, and almost a little breathless, as he chuckled lightly, the smell of his breath ghosting across Castiel’s face.

Castiel didn’t answer except to press his lips lightly to Dean’s once again, making the other man smile against him. “Or not,” Dean whispered, before following Castiel’s mouth backwards and licking at the seam of his lips. This time, the kiss was a little fiercer, and the taste of Dean’s life in Ardus spread onto Castiel’s tongue – more mead, fresh bread and salted meat. Dean was almost investigative in the way he explored Castiel’s mouth, and seemingly found relaxation in whatever he tasted there, for  when he withdrew he sighed contentedly and forced his eyes to focus on Castiel. The effect was to almost make him cross-eyed, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile at the strangeness of the expression.

Castiel licked his own lips, chasing the dark and deep taste of Dean a little longer, before replying: “I did wonder, before you came, if you would manage it.”

“Hm.” Dean let the hand at Castiel’s neck drop t his waist, where he thumbed at the hipbone beneath the clothing. “I promised, didn’t I?”

“I shouldn’t have underestimated you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have...” Dean reached forward playfully, and placed a sloppier kiss against Castiel’s lips as reprimand, before turning and letting his nose rub against Castiel’s.

“How did you manage to get out of the city?”

Dean momentarily ignored the question in favour of pursuing Castiel’s jawline with his lips. Castiel let him, for a moment, before lolling backwards and pulling his jaw from Dean’s reach. Dean merely shrugged and let his focus drift to Castiel’s neck. Castiel enjoyed that sensation for a moment too, before letting his head drop back so that Dean’s mouth was forced from his neck. Dean sighed, but acquiesced, peeling his lips away from Castiel’s skin and eyeballing him as he answered:

 “I had a lie prepared and I didn’t even have to use it. Bobby said as long as I was back when I said I would be, he didn’t give a damn what I was doing.”

Castiel opened his eyes to appraise Dean, who seemed to be caught somewhere around the vicinity of Castiel’s cheeks. “What if there are others which require more explanation?”

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Castiel, so that their temples were touching. “I’ll tell them what I was gonna tell Bobby. That I sent up a little experiment to see how well the boltholes would work against the Angels. Now I can be out as many nights of the week as I want.”

“What if someone wants to see this bolthole?”

Dean sighed against Castiel’s neck as he leaned down and inhaled quietly, seemingly reluctant to answer. The reason was made plain when he confessed, face burning against Castiel’s neck: “I was kinda hoping you’d build it for me...”

Castiel laughed openly and turned his head to kiss Dean’s temple. That turned into Dean meeting Castiel’s lips with a rush of his own, and that turned into him pushing Castiel up against a nearby tree and descending with an eager and hungry mouth to the muscles at the side of Castiel’s neck, which pulsed with the exertion of holding his head up against the force Dean exacted.

“Dean, we might need to move into the shelter.” Dean merely hummed a note of non-acquiescence against Castiel’s neck before descending further to suck on his collarbone, one hand reaching up to unceremoniously wrench aside Castiel’s shirt to do so.

“We may be close to the city, but we’re still out in the open. _Ah_.”

Dean grinned, and Castiel felt the walls of his teeth momentarily against his skin, before he pulled backwards and looked up, clearly pleased with Castiel’s state as he took in his face.

“If you stopped making noises like that, I might be able to, Cas. But you’re the irresponsible one here.”

He moved to kiss Castiel’s lips again, skipping the request for permission to enter Castiel’s mouth and instead licking his way in, forcing Castiel back against the tree further as he almost choked at the intrusion. When Dean showed no sign of relenting, chasing Castiel’s mouth wherever Castiel withdrew it to, he decided that two could play at Dean’s game, and proceeded to whirl them both around, so that Dean was pressed up against the tree, and his own wings were allowed to stretch out behind him. He shook them a few times, trying to dislodge the bark from the matted fine hairs – Dean’s doing – but he failed to do very much about it, and made a note that when they were both less distracted, Dean would have to be tasked with tidying them again.

The new position sent Dean reeling, however, and he was soon the one emitting the sounds that drove the other to distraction. At Castiel’s sudden participation in the foolhardy plan, he at once set out in an attempt to simultaneously remove both Castiel’s shirt and his own. As fond as Castiel’s body was of this plan, for it thrummed loudly with the first touch of Dean’s fingers to his bare skin, it was hard to withdraw for long enough to allow Dean to do his work. Eventually, they settled for merely leaving the shirts three-quarters open, in favor of pressing as close as they had before, and rolling together.

It was better than before – with every meeting Castiel seemed to have a better sense of his requirements, and a better understanding of how Dean seemed to prefer he perform. Being grounded, it was easier to press himself against Dean harder and more strongly, which Dean seemed to respond well to, losing a little strength in his knees as he leaned back against the tree and allowed Castiel to take control. The sensations were more acute too. While Castiel had been preliminarily awed just generally with the notion of being close to Dean in this way, and the response of his body to his proximity, on this his third attempt, he found himself better able to dissect the feelings and pursue those that gave him and Dean the greatest satisfaction. That culminated in slower but more vigorous rolls of his hips, and more careful attention to Dean’s neck – particularly the spot just beneath his ear, and his jawline – which had Dean losing sentience beneath him.

“Cas. _Cas!_ ”

Castiel only responded by scraping his teeth lightly along Dean’s stubble as Dean had done to him only a few minutes before, until they bit together at his jawline, taking in the tiniest morsel of skin and extracting pressure.

“ _Uhh_.”

Dean grabbed for Castiel’s hips properly then, and pulled him closer, stopping him in his movements momentarily. The loss of the motion frustrated Dean, and he threw his head back against the tree with a thud, panting heavily.

Castiel barely allowed him reprieve, instead following him with his lips and tracing the path of Dean’s adam’s apple as it bobbed along his neck with every hastened breath. Dean began to gasp in earnest, caught between attempting to breathe and swallow at the same time, and choking on his own pleasure.

The thought of their circumstance returned to Castiel slowly, for he was lost in pursuing repetitions of the noises Dean was making. They were foolish-sounding noises in any other scenario, he knew, and unconscious. In any other circumstance they might have been comical. But somehow, under the forest’s covering, they awoke a primal urge in him that he was not familiar with, but instinctually trusted as promising pleasure and satisfaction, and he pursued it wantonly.

Darkness was gaining though, and even as caught as he was by Dean’s proximity, Castiel had enough presence of mind to peel himself away momentarily and whisper out: “We need to get in the shelter. It’s not safe for us out here if we’re not on our guard.”

Dean nodded dumbly, dropping his gaze from Castiel’s face to his chest and letting his hands loose from where he had been clutching at Castiel’s shirt. Castiel made his way quickly to the shelter and bent down to shuffle in. Dean snickered behind him, but quietened under a quick reproachful gaze that Castiel threw over his shoulder. He had barely made his way into the small, cramped space before Dean was following, not bothering to be careful as he crawled in and clambered over Castiel, dropping kisses on his chest as he did so.

The moment he reached Castiel’s mouth he descended, and let his tongue immediately slip back to tangle with Castiel’s. The assurance that they were now in a safer space seemed to invigorate Dean, and he groaned lightly into Castiel’s mouth. Castiel responded with more veracity than he had imagined he could have as he, without ceremony, lined himself up against Dean and thrust hard against him. The force of the movement, and the desperation behind it, took them both by surprise, and as Dean finished the roll they both froze at the peak panting. Dean raised his head to look at Castiel for a moment, before once again bringing their lips together – more softly this time. As he moved back to repeat the action, he kept himself under control, keeping the movements smaller and softer, and more languid, allowing Castiel to acclimatise to his position beneath him.

But Castiel had liked the roughness – the rawness of the moment. And he spread his legs and allowed Dean to fit in closer, pulling at his hipbones and his breeches to try and replicate the movement again. Dean obliged, but kept a little of himself back, only pressing a little closer each time, and softening when Castiel’s grip on him loosened.

Castiel pulled him in for another kiss when Dean took a moment to breathe, both palms on either side of Dean’s face, and when he pulled back he met Dean’s gaze directly. “I am not delicate. You do not have to be careful with me.”

Dean’s breath hitched as his eyes searched Castiel’s face in the darkness of the shelter. The words seemed to startle him, and he pulled some of his weight off Castiel.

“I just... I don’t want to push you.”

“You’re not.” Castiel illustrated his point by reaching up and placing a light kiss on Dean’s lips. Dean accepted it willingly enough, but Castiel believed his eyes remained open for the brief contact, for when Castiel opened his own, Dean was still staring down at him.

He traced the line of Dean’s lips, plump and swollen, with his thumb, before stating, as matter-of-factly as he could (though it made his stomach coil with nervousness). “What do you want?”

“I thought we agreed we were gonna do what you wanted for a while.”

Dean rubbed his lips together as Castiel’s eyes stayed on them, and then grimaced at Castiel.

“We did. And that brought us here. But now I want you to do what you desire.”

“I want this.”

Dean emphasised his point with a kiss and a soft roll. The movement was tender, more than anything else. In the midst of what had been a panting, sweaty moment, the softness of it surprised him, and Castiel lay back momentarily in order to watch Dean carefully. Dean seemed to understand the implication of what he had done too, for he suddenly bit his lip and surveyed Castiel, eyes wide, willing him to comprehend what he could not express.

Castiel nodded and pushed himself upwards, pressing his lips to Dean in a light kiss. Their mouths stayed closed, but the kisses were hot enough – soft, anxious presses that calmed their breathing, but Castiel’s heart pound faster than it had minutes before. Slowly, Dean let Castiel take over the kiss, rolling backwards and allowing Castiel to switch their positions. Castiel eased Dean back down onto the thin blanket with which he had covered the forest floor within the shelter. Once Dean was settled, he gently pulled back Dean shirt, which had bunched between them, and let his lips follow the skin across Dean’s upper chest – planting deliberate kisses on every freckle he found there. Dean moaned a little at the sensation and let his head fall back, allowing Castiel his desires. A few minutes later, he felt Dean’s hands winding up through his shirt to the back, sliding and massaging at the joints that connected his wings to his spine.

 “God Cas, I didn’t even know how much I’d been wanting to touch them again.”

Castiel smiled and sat back, quickly dislodging Dean’s hands and unbuttoning the remainder of his shirt. The moment it was removed he pulled Dean up towards him and supported his lower back while Dean quickly shrugged off his own. Once they were done, Castiel pushed him back towards the floor, and let Dean’s hands quickly follow their previous path to the wings again, where they gently stroked at the feathers there, and then dug into the tight muscles. The exploration seemed to distract Dean for a moment, for he stopped moving his lips against Castiel’s in favour of a more tentative exploration of another part of him. Castiel sighed lightly and spread the wings as much as he could without dislodging the fragile supports of their small space. Dean praised him with a light kiss and then continued to admire them, brushing lightly along the tendons and veins he found, as though figuring out their mechanics.

“They’re amazing, Cas.”

Castiel dipped his head and placed a soft kiss to the base of Dean’s neck, where the tendons met his collarbone. Dean stretched his head backwards, allowing better access to the spot and watching as Castiel raised himself back up.

“Your entire body is amazing,” Castiel replied, without thought, as though they were engaged in competition. Dean blushed completely, although his pupils blew at the compliment, suddenly increasing in size so that they eclipsed his entire iris. “Aw, c’mon Cas. No need for flattery. You’ve got me where you want me.”

“I’m not lying, Dean. You are magnificent.”

Dean jostled a little underneath him and Castiel pushed himself upwards a little to give Dean the space he assumed that he required. When Castiel moved away, however, Dean froze and looked up at him apologetically. Clearly, his departure was not desired yet. Smiling softly, Castiel leaned down again and placed a chaste peck upon Dean’s lips, before leaning slightly to the left so he could support his weight on one arm, leaving the other free. He used it to trail down from Dean’s forehead first, over his right eyelid, and down his cheek. He brought it directly over Dean’s mouth, and Dean kissed his fingers lightly on their path down past his chin and along the centre of his neck. Dean seemed to appreciate the simplicity of the gesture, despite what they had been engaged in just outside the shelter previously. At his visible relaxation, Castiel ignored his previous intentions in favour of furthering Dean’s comfort. He let his fingers mimic Dean’s light traces of his skin for a while until Dean’s relaxation seemed universal throughout his whole body, before murmuring lightly:

“You know, when my Father created the Earth, he made it out of something smaller than you could ever imagine.”

Dean stayed silent, apart from the hitch of his breath as Castiel ran his fingers gently across his collarbone. Beneath the touch, his skin thrummed lightly in thanks though, and Castiel focused on the point where it was concentrated, running his fingers back and forth along it until Dean sighed openly.

“Humans do not have a name for it yet, but we call it the Arenae. It is smaller than the smallest thing you could possibly imagine. Thousands of times smaller than your freckles.” He traced a few on Dean’s chest as he continued, running his fingers around the shape of his pectoral muscles. Dean’s gaze alternated between focusing on the movement of Castiel’s fingers, with his mouth wide open, and watching Castiel with awe, as though he had just realized something important.

“He made that small thing out of the tiniest sliver of divinity. A most miniscule part of himself which he carved out of himself with his mind. And he filled it with energy – that which gives everything life. It was a miniscule grain of pure force. Within that little film of divinity, he poured the force on ten million lightning storms, twenty million wars, every fuel known to man, and even more. More than even I can imagine.”

His fingers moved in circles around Dean’s right pectoral slower and slower, until he was tracing the bare skin directly around his nipple. With one quick brush, he ran his thumb along it, and delighted when he saw the skin at once pucker under the attention. When he did it again, he felt a slight jump in Dean’s pelvis. Grinning, he brought his thumb over it, and began to flick it over the hardened skin back and forth, noting every minute change in its composition. Beneath him, Dean’s eyes fluttered shut momentarily, and he forgot to breathe.

“Then he pressed that grain even tighter, and wrapped himself and his power around it and constricted it, pressing it impossibly close, until even his power was not enough to contain the energy he had expelled into it. And at once, it exploded, racing through nothingness and tearing it apart, leaving space for existence to begin.”

As Dean’s breathing evened, Castiel brought his thumb to the other nipple and began to move it in circles once again. Dean licked his lips beneath Castiel and let his gaze fall to where Castiel teased him for the touch. Beside Castiel’s leg, he felt the muscles in Dean’s legs tighten.

“What that grain expelled created a matter, Dean, which forms the building blocks of everything. It comprises the entire universe, assembling itself into various forms and holding those forms to become things – water, air, earth, fire, human.”

Dean stifled a gasp as Castiel’s thumb reached its mark and began stroking over him again, first with light flicks, and then with twists between his index finger and thumb when Dean appeared to calm slightly.

“Humans have a name for this matter, although they came by it by accident, without properly understanding its meaning.”

“What’s... that?”

Dean was sweating below Castiel, and for his own sake, Castiel withdrew his touch and shuffled down Dean, moving to place a kiss at the centre of his chest, before working back up to look Dean in the eyes.

“Stardust.”

Dean’s mouth fell open as he watched Castiel searchingly, his green eyes widening enough to that Castiel could see his own reflection within them, which warmed him greatly. He leaned down slightly, so that a little more of his body was pressed against Dean’s, and he was resting against Dean’s thigh.

“The stars in the sky – they are parts of the matter that did not disperse as minutely as the rest. They stayed together in clumps. They are little bits of the film of divinity that my Father encased his creation in, and from which your world exploded.”

He reached up to stroke Dean’s face again, and watched as Dean closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, mouth puckering open to suck in soft, quiet little breaths.

“They are dispersing slowly, over time. The light you see in the sky is what happens when the matter slowly boils itself down, and explodes outwards, spreading into the universe, as it did in the beginning. The star is that film of divinity burning and destroying itself, and the light you see is that film exploding and burning down the earth – expelling that energy into existence to be assembled as new parts of creation – things like you.”

Dean’s breathing stopped entirely as Castiel ran a thumb along his cheekbone and cupped his jaw.

“You are made of stardust, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes closed for a moment as be absorbed the words. Slowly, at the trace of Castiel’s touch, they opened again and he reached up to run his thumb across the dip beneath Castiel’s eyelids. Castiel closed his eyes and let Dean reach further to run his thumb along the eyelid, revelling in the dance of divinity across his skin when Dean’s touch left him.

“What are you made of, Cas?”

“The same thing, only much rawer and assembled differently.”

Dean’s fingers returned to trace the outline of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel let his own hand drop from Dean’s face. Dean reached his head up slowly, kissing Castiel’s bottom lip lightly before he let his head drop back to the nest.

“Did you always look like you do now, Cas? Is this how the stardust made you?”

“No. I only took on this appearance before I came to earth.”

“What did you look like before then?”

Castiel kissed Dean’s fingers, before pulling them away from his face, and instead entangling them in his own. He was forced to place more weight upon Dean, but Dean scarcely seemed to mind, merely adjusting slightly beneath him and taking deep careful breaths.

“It is difficult to describe. There is very little in your world that would compare. But, if you imagine starlight, that you see in the evening sky, at one thousand times that strength, you might have something of an idea of what I look like.”

When his voice fell away and he searched Dean’s face for a sign of horror, or comprehension at least, he was met with a crush of Dean’s lips against his. A moment later, Dean had rolled them both out of the nest, pressing Castiel down onto the forest floor, and he was ravishing Castiel’s mouth, delving as deep as he could before extracting Castiel’s tongue and sucking on it.

When Dean moved his mouth to Castiel’s neck and commenced sucking and licking there, Castiel couldn’t help but chuckle and mumble out: “I’ve never known the story of creation to have such an effect.”

Dean pulled of his neck for a moment, looking mildly confused. “I-I’m sorry, is this disrespectful?”

Castiel reached for Dean’s face in apology, and pulled him back in for a soft kiss. “No. I do not think so. I’m glad you want to be near me. That is what I wish for too.”

Dean smiled and returned to his path kissing along Castiel’s neck lightly and down to his collarbone. In between kisses, he spoke: “Good. Because you telling me that we’re both made of stardust? I’m not one for the romantic stuff, Cas, but God that just makes me want you so badly.”

Dean keened against him, and the next moment Castiel’s breath was cut off as Dean all but suffocated him under the force of his kiss, sliding thigh between Castiel’s and pressing himself against Castiel’s own thigh, hard. Castiel tilted his head back to gasp in response, and let his other leg fall further to the side, leaving Dean to scuffle in between them, aligning them properly with one another. As soon as they were set, he leaned forward to capture Castiel’s mouth in another searing kiss, leaving a trace of his teeth on Castiel’s lower lip, before rolling himself above Castiel and pressing his hips downwards and forwards.

With a hiss, Dean dropped his head beside Castiel’s shoulder and repeated the motion, allowing Castiel’s hands to reach up to his hips and pull him closer. The contact was almost bruising, and close to pain, but with the force of energy that pumped through is veins, Castiel had room for only one coherent thought, and that was bringing Dean as close as possible.

With every roll of Dean’s hips, Castiel was pushed more uncomfortably into the ground, and the feathers Dean had been so careful to straighten were made rough again against the rough fabric of the blanket, picking up grains of dust and dirt in their fragile hairs and bristling. But it made little difference to Castiel. There was little he could think of, other than wonder at the fact that the press of two body parts together could have such an impact, depriving every other organ in his body, it seemed, of capacity for any meaningful movement or thought that was not geared towards the event.

With every thrust, Dean stayed closer and closer, until he was pressed against Castiel with ferocity, completely, punctuating the pressure with only tiny rolls of his hips where he was able to increase it. It hurt a little, but Castiel was too caught up in clawing Dean closer, letting his legs fall apart even further and allowing Dean to take one, and hang it lightly around his hip. The new positioning allowed Dean to press himself even closer, if that were possible, and when Castiel instinctively tightened his leg around Dean’s waist to keep him there, Dean moaned into the kiss. Without even realizing how intensely the feeling had been building within him, Castiel felt a release in his stomach and moments later, the warmth of a wetness seeping through his breeches. Dean growled lightly, and pulled Castiel’s chin up towards him, sinking his tongue into Castiel’s mouth before their lips had even touched and seizing upon his lips when they followed. Even though his body felt limp and weak, Castiel pulled Dean as close as he could, and allowed him to press closer and harder, letting his hands descend to Dean’s hips and pulling on them, until Dean was brought closer and closer until eventually he as simply held tight against Castiel, kissing him, and his body tensed, excess energy seeping out through him and creating a wetness at the front part of his breeches.

When he was done, Dean leaned down against Castiel, exhaling shakily against his neck, lips quivering against the flesh. “God. Cas.”

Castiel barely even responded, letting his breath rush in and out as it attempted to make up for the amount of time he’d held it, too lost in the sensation of Dean so near him to remember. Dean adjusted himself between Castiel’s legs, but made very little attempt to move – only turning his head to the side to plant light, soft kisses along the muscles in Castiel’s neck.

Dean smiled against Castiel’s neck, trailing his lips up along Castiel’s chin until he met his lips, and sucked on the bottom one gently. When he was done, he tilted his head forwards, so that his nose brushed alongside Castiel’s. “Never been like this before, Cas.”

“Because I am male.”

“Because you’re you.”

Dean leaned forward and kissed him again, biting at Castiel’s lip ever so slightly. Amidst the exhaustion of sensation, the touch was muted, but pleasant enough, leaving Castiel with a sated, blissful feeling, rather than a burning one – at least for now.

One of Castiel’s wings began to cramp beneath him and he attempted to stretch it out. Dean noticed the movement, and immediately withdrew, rolling of Castiel quickly and investigating the tremor with his fingers.

“Sorry, Cas. Are they ok?”

“A little crushed. I will need to stretch them out.”

“Mm.” Dean let his eyes run down Castiel’s bare chest quickly, settling upon his clothed bottom half. “You’ll need a wash too. Come on.” He leaned back on the balls of his feet and extended a hand to Castiel. When Castiel took it, Dean stood and hauled Castiel with him. With a twinkly-eyed grin and tug, he pulled Castiel into a tight embrace, and met his lips with a half-smile and a light press, letting his other hand trace the small of Castiel’s back. “Come on, let’s head down to the river.”

...

The river was another event entirely, and while Castiel warned Dean that their being out in the open required their full concentration, regardless of their proximity to the city, that didn’t stop Dean from sneaking up behind Castiel and pulling him close. In the playful wrestle that ensued, the fact that neither of them were clothed was lost to amusement, until they ended up face to face and flush with one another, at which time Dean withdrew with a ferocious blush. It rendered the entire process of washing redundant when they both returned to the shelter, invigorated by the proximity, and almost immediately returned to their disheveled state of the hour previously.

Still, in the easiness and unburdened emotion of the hours after, when Dean rolled over and pulled Castiel’s chest against his back, entangling their fingers across his bare chest, it was difficult to mind. Dean fell asleep to Castiel murmuring quiet platitudes against the back of his neck – their content indiscernible in the mixture of kisses and mumblings – and it was easy enough, even with the choir’s roar from deeper in the forest, to follow suit, in the warmth of the shelter and the vision of the starry night above them through a gap in the shelter beneath which they lay.

...

Dean crept from the shelter early in the morning, pressing a soft kiss to Castiel’s cheek as he left. It was before dawn, and Castiel was already awake – but he knew there was no time for a proper farewell. Dean had to return to the city before dawn, and he would do better at that task were he undisturbed. That didn’t stop Castiel from rotating “sleepily” into Dean’s lips and enjoying the brief touch before Dean crawled out the door.

Dean mounted his mare almost immediately, and Castiel heard him adjust himself atop her saddle. There were thirty seconds or so, in which he seemingly sat in the clearing, before he kicked the horse into gear and they road quickly back to the city. In the shelter, Castiel waited for the sound of Impala’s hoofbeats to cease reverberating in the earth’s surface before he stretched and conceded the beginning of the day.

Within three hours, he had Dean’s pretend bolthole prepared nearby, and successfully dressed to look as though it were older than the morning’s work. Castiel briefly entertained the possibility of returning to his cabin to tend to his vegetables and to acquire new supplies, meeting Dean up the Road a few days late. The thought of Dean scanning the forest for him expectantly, without an answer, however, was enough to dismiss that thought, and the rest of the afternoon was devoted to hunting and improving the small shelter for the next few days’ wait, and the hopeful anticipation that the evening’s visit would be repeated in future.

 

...

The assembly for the trip to the Road was hurried.  The morning he arrived back at the City should have been preparation time for Dean and his men, but when Dean lead Impala to the stables, he heard a whisper between two young assistants there that Lydia was in a “delicate position” (wording presumably heard from adults in the vicinity and repeated without conception of its meaning). In a fit of panic, he’d hurried through his morning’s briefing and training with his men and instead had hastened to her chambers, heart pounding at the worrisome promise of her reveal.

He was spared though, when Lydia reprimanded him with a cool glare, and insisted, hissing in a whisper that the child was “with utmost certainty” her husband’s. She’s slapped him across the face too, in a fit of pique that he’d been so unsubtle as to appear at her chambers the moment the news broke in the kingdom – virtually confirming the opposite.

Dean had apologized profusely and made at once to leave, but Lydia had stopped him with an aggravated hand signal directed at a chair in the corner of her chambers and a grim line of lips. “Now you’re here you have to stay for a respectable time, you idiot. At least that way I can spin your foolishness as something else, rather than a paternity visit.”

Dean deposited himself compliantly enough in the chair, and wilted under her cool gaze for five full minutes, until she snapped abruptly: “I heard you had a meeting with Lilith.”

“Yeah.” Dean answered, plainly enough, but when Lydia whirled, mouth twisting in fury, he followed it with: “she invited me to her garden for fruit.”

“For _fruit_?”

Lydia all but spat out the repetition, and Dean coiled under her gaze.

“Yeah. And then she took me for a walk on the ramparts. We ran into Alastair and that was that.”

Lydia froze in the midst of her aggravated pacing, eyes on the door, as though she could see through it to any witnesses to their visitation. Presumably there were, even if they had not been visible to Dean upon his entrance. The palace was like that.

“Alastair?”

“Yeah. They were whispering for a little and then she left.”

Lydia looked towards Dean slowly, eyes fastidious in their survey of his expression. His nonchalance at the implicit query appeared to concern her, for a moment later, she snapped: “who is she?”

“What, the Princess?”

Lydia didn’t even glance at him, though she rolled her eyes, as though demonstrably, for his benefit.

“The woman that’s got you so distracted.”

Dean stoppered the sensation of shock before it could betray him, and instead forced a casualness as he leaned back in his chair and watched Lydia as she crossed her arms before him.

“There’s no... woman.” The lie should have come easily enough, but Lydia arched her eyebrow in any case. There may have been no love between them, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t appropriated a part of Dean – there was clear understanding in her gaze as she took to her aggravated pacing again, swatting at her skirts as though they did her a personal injustice. She didn’t even bother to respond to the feebleness of the statement – her silence was enough – other than to follow it with: “you need to take your meetings with her the Princess more seriously, Dean.”

“I-“

“I’ll be out of the court for months with this.” She gestured angrily towards her stomach with apparent distaste and detachment. Her fingers appeared to move to clutch at her skin, below the corset – already loosened, Dean noted – but though the better of it at the last moment, and merely sat there, in a desensitized kind of cradling, “meanwhile, you have all the presence of mind of a _child_.”

A stroke of aggravation hit Dean, and he leaned forward: “You said that it wasn’t mine.”

She looked to him sharply, hand still across her belly, and eyes gleaming with a fearsome determination. “It’s not, but it’s an inconvenience all the same. I might add that regardless of my own certainty, at least half the court suspects otherwise. Even after the birth, I might have to hang my head in shame, at least until he resembles his father.”

Dean didn’t bother to address the pronoun, but leaned back, in deferral to her rage. It was true that he had been less than discreet, and hadn’t given Lydia’s position at court much of a second thought after the first time they chose to bring their relationship to her chambers. Of course, he may not consider the position of importance. But he knew she did, as did Ruby, and since he’d been willing to make a concession on the latter’s part, it was only fair he did the same for Lydia. Still, he couldn’t help from questioning the obvious, in Lydia’s mild state of hysteria:

“Is court gossip really that important in the general scheme of things, Lydia?”

There was a knock at the door, and she hissed at him quickly. “You ought to pay more attention to that too, if you have any sense.”

Dean had no time to register the words, let alone respond, before she crossed the room quickly, opening the door. It might have been one of the worst frights of Dean’s life, to see that Lydia’s husband – a man Den knew by sight but nothing more -  standing beyond his threshold, despite her quick warning glance as she opened the door slowly, looking back after she had recognized their intruder.

“My love, I had not expected you would return so soon – I would have warned you we would have had a guest.”

She leaned beyond the door for a moment to exchange a kiss with the man there, before she stood back and allowed him to cross the threshold. The man registered Dean’s presence the moment he appeared, with sharp glare, but accepted his wife’s preening rubs to his shoulder with  smiling glance, before he returned to Dean with  a far more plaintive expression.

 “Slayer, we are honored.”

Dean did his best to meet the man’s strange hazel eyes – almost yellow in their light decoration around the irises – but their light emptiness was enough to make him turn away mildly, using the excuse of standing up to do so. He did, however, extend his hand, and allowed the Lord – Azazel Masters – to take it and shake it firmly, albeit with a grip slightly tighter than necessary.

“I was not aware you were well acquainted with my wife. But I am pleased to acknowledge your presence here, Slayer. Such a prestigious soldier in our home is certainly a great compliment.”

Dean swallowed lightly as Lydia glanced at him meaningfully from beyond her husband’s shoulder. Her hand drifted to her stomach again, and she lowered her chin to stare him down.

“A recent acquaintance. My brother is recently married to another of the Princess’ ladies.”

“Yes, I heard. And expectant.”

“On the first day of Winter.”

Azazel nodded lightly, although there was little anticipation in his expression. “We look forward to sharing congratulations then.”

A nervous silence fell in the room, until Lydia made a graceful excuse: “Slayer your well-wishes are much appreciated, but my husband and I might now like some time alone.”

Dean stood abruptly, taking the chance to leave the pair under Lydia’s meaningful gaze. “Of course, my lady.”

He bowed abruptly for both Lydia and Azazel, who responded with the necessary formality. Azazel escorted Dean to the door, and grinned blandly as he opened it for Dean. “I am sure you will be back in my chambers soon enough, Dean.”

Dean caught the eye of Lydia, who stared blankly back at him, before Azazel clicked his tongue and closed the door in his face.

...

Sam was with Ruby again in the afternoon, and while Dean passed by, they both seemed inclined to be undisturbed – although Sam promised that they would take dinner that evening. In the afternoon then, with little else to do, Dean found himself at the Brown Bear in a quiet corner – avoiding the more raucous crowds of Balthazar’s recently returned squadron. Their captain himself was there too, reveling contentedly enough, but he soon extricated himself from the throng – bringing over two tankards to Dean’s table that Ellen provided him without asking for payment.

“Heard your name a few times in the street today, brother.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took the tankard gratefully, taking a long draught that a few of his men applauded from the other side of the alehouse. He ignored them, but Balthazar threw them a casual grin and salute, and before turning back to Dean and making clear that they did not wish to be disturbed.

“What about?”

“Lady Lydia.”

At those words Dean took another swig of his ale, this time lesser. Balthazar waited patiently enough, however, and the moment Dean thought that he would be forced to avoid the question more thoroughly, Balthazar mercifully changed tact, instead pronouncing mildly: “Did you hear that Alastair had a run in in the forest?”

The words were mild enough, but their impact was far more severe, and Dean quickly pressed himself close to Balthazar, whispering in hushed tones. “What happened?”

“He says he and a few men were scouting a little ways up the Etrea route. About a mile away from the party.  They happened upon an Angelus and wounded it mortally.”

“Did they bring back a body?”

Balthazar threw a sidelong look at Dean and took another drink of his ale, eyes raking the men before them as they rallied around the bar merrily enough.

“No, they said that it escaped before they could finish it off.”

Dean nodded grimly.

Balthazar stared at him for a moment before he murmured: “Unprovoked.”

“Mm.”

Both men stared pensively at their drinks for a moment, before Balthazar took his and drained it – signaling to Ellen at the bar his desire for a repeat, even before he had finished with the first. She pursed her lips but brought another over for each of them, despite Dean’s still being largely full.

“Have you had any trouble on the Road, since last Autumn?” Balthazar seemed to be choosing his words carefully as he watched Dean from bright blue eyes beside him.

“No. The meat’s been keeping them away.”

Balthazar nodded and tossed his empty tankard from hand to hand as he stared down at it. “I’ve found the same, so has Garth. Very… very quiet.”

Dean said nothing, though his stomach twisted a little at the thought of Castiel out in the forest, so soon after Alastair had been part of an altercation. If the animal had not been killed, he did not doubt it would be on a rampage now in the forest. And Castiel, in his feeble shelter so close to the city, might be at risk.

He dismissed the thought quickly as foolish. Castiel had survived far worse, and it did him no favors to underestimate him. If anything, he was safer now, when Dean wasn’t around as a distraction. The foolishness of the night previously could not be repeated, certainly. But Castiel was safe, he was sure.

“A stoke of bad luck then.” Balthazar concluded carefully, eyes still on Dean, who nodded gruffly, albeit belatedly (having for a moment been reminiscing the image of Castiel’s wings twitching against the forest floor in his distraction).

When Dean said nothing, Balthazar raised his tankard and waited on Dean to clink his against it before they both took a long draught. “We ought to hope it not be repeated.”

They sat in silence for some time after that, although Balthazar did tell a number of stories of the north – vaguely alluding to a few affairs when up there. Dean chuckled through the anecdotes and absorbed the updates of the cities in the north – feeling a slight pang of nostalgia for not having visited there in three seasons.

When dusk fell, Balthazar departed with a wry smile but a cagey demeanor – refusing to tell Dean which bed he intended to take rest in for the evening. He accompanied Dean amicably enough back to the palace though, and turned off at the entrance, whistling and winking as he did so.

Ruby was asleep when Dean reached his brother’s chambers, and Sam departed the room with an unsubtle creep and a cautionary finger to his lips. It was a fair point, for Ruby seemed to be barely passed out of consciousness – positioned uncomfortably on her back, with her massively swollen belly seeming to crush her a little from above. Her mouth was slightly open and her lips twitched feebly in sleep; it was an oddly domestic picture of the woman usually so prettily presented, but Dean couldn’t help but warm at it, and the sight of Sam’s fond gaze as he left. Whatever had passed, within weeks there would be a new Winchester, and their family would be solidified. It had been as Sam had always wished, and Dean too, after the departure of their father and mother; and it would be the chance to rectify every wrong they had endured.

Sam was in high spirits as they ate, although he confessed his worry still as to the actual birth. Ruby had still confessed to little, he said, and the midwives were even less forthcoming.

“It’s not as if I haven’t seen any part of it,” Sam said with aggravation, as he finished the last of his meal and pushed his plate towards the centre of the table, “and I’d wish to be there with her. She seems nervous.”

Dean couldn’t help but take the opportunity to share a little of his knowledge, garnered from brothels and less well-bred women over the years. His intention had been to toy with his brother a little, and have him leave the table with a petulant cry of “not right after dinner, Dean!” True, Sam was mildly horrified, but he listened with bated breath as Dean addressed a few particulars. It struck him that they may have been talking of one of nature’s more brutal passages, but it was truly endearing to see that Sam’s affection for Ruby made even that process enrapturing.

When he was done, Sam leaned back thoughtfully, mulling over both the gaps that Dean had been unable to fill, and his newly acquired knowledge. For a moment Dean thought his brother might crack, but he only looked at Dean across the table and smiled widely: “I hadn’t thought I could love her more than I did a few hours ago.”

Dean, in the privacy of their cottage, took the opportunity to cross the room and pull his brother into a tight hug, tapping him on the back lightly and squeezing him past the point of comfort. “I’m proud of ya, Sammy.”

Sam laughed gruffly into the hug, but allowed Dean his brotherly moment, before they pulled apart, clearing their throats and adjusting manfully. With a slight blush, Sam made his way to the cellar of the cottage and came back with a dusty bottle of mead. He raised it bashfully, to Dean’s snicker, and asked: “Would it be awful if I declared a toast to myself and Ruby?” Dean grinned and took the bottle from him, uncorking it and pouring two tankards for the pair of them. “I’ll declare it for you.”

Sam beamed and allowed Dean to pour the tankards, taking a long drink from his as he seated himself back at the table and allowed Dean to follow suit. The mead was strong – far stronger than Dean had been drinking at the Brown Bear – and it was enough that he felt it go to his head quickly and soundly. As he righted himself – willing his head to stop feeling so cloudy – Sam gazed thoughtfully at his brother before him, clearly occupied with another thought entirely.

“I wish our mother had seen her.”

“Who?”

“Ruby.” Sam smiled down at his drink as he ran his fingers around the edges (although they had little to travel, given the way his massive palms encapsulated the vessel). “Do you think she would have liked her?”

Dean chuckled, although Sam seemed a little serious at the question. An offset of never truly knowing their mother, perhaps. Slowly, Dean looked to meet his brother’s eyes, and smiled: “She would’a loved her, Sammy. And that little Winchester of yours. She’d have loved that kid more than life itself.”

The thought seemed to please Sam and he took another drink from his tankard, this time less fidgety when he placed it down against the wooden table and watched his brother do the same.

“I wish she’d been here.”

Dean only grimaced and took another drink. “Me too.”

Sam nodded sadly and stared at his brother for a moment, before looking back to his hands and frowning. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Dean?”

The abrupt change of tact startled Dean, and he looked up to find his brother watching him cautiously, as though he’d anticipated a worser response for the question. Dean sighed and watched his brother relax slightly as he adjusted himself on the hard wooden seat.

“I don’t know, Sammy. Probably not.”

“Oh.”

Sam nodded quickly and looked down at his drink, covering the silence with another swill and draught of his mead; he took in too much this time and winced a little at the taste. Dean rolled his eyes and took a far lighter drink, placing his tankard down again and pressing his lips together.

“Why does it matter?”

“It’s just...” Sam shook his head and looked back down at his tankard, “don’t worry.”

Dean sighed and grimaced at his brother across the table. “What is it Sam?” His tone was sharper than he intended, and it caught Sam’s attention. Guiltily, Sam raised his gaze and returned to watching his brother, his lower lip disappearing beneath his upper lip as he pressed his lips together nervously.

“It’s just... with the baby.... I guess Ruby and I will be busy. And, well, I just... I don’t want you to ever be left alone. I-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I do though, Dean!” Sam let the statement slip out before he could catch himself, and he recoiled from it a few moments later, as though regretting it. Dean took a deep breath, and swallowed down his instant dismissal of Sam’s concern, instead nodding lightly and looking down at his reflection in his ale.

Sam took his silence for acquiescence to the conversation’s continuing, and he tentatively spoke: “It’s just... when you go out on the Road, I know things get dangerous. And at times, you wonder whether it’s worth it. But...” he swallowed around his words, and let his mouth wait open around the sentence before he continued: “I don’t want you to end up like Dad, thinking that there’s nothing to come home to. I don’t want you to feel like you don’t have anyone, when I’m with Ruby and Jo’s with Garth and...”

Dean shook his head lightly and smiled at his brother. Sam seemed a little appalled by the kindly reaction, and he noticeably leaned back in his seat, as though expecting some kind of reprimand. Dean however, merely leaned forward and threaded his fingers through one another, placing the sides of his hands against the table and staring at his brother.

“I don’t... that’s not how I think, Sam. Trust me.”

“Are you sure? Because-“

“I know you all have other priorities now. And that’s fine. I get it, and I want you to do all of this – the wife, the kid. It’s just... it’s not for me.”

Sam licked his lips, clearly unpersuaded, and met his brother’s gaze evenly enough, although he noticeably dropped it a little when he spoke again. “Are you sure? Because-“

It should have been a larger decision to confess it as he did, but Dean had been drinking and in the privacy of the moment, Dean found, without even a thought, that he couldn’t hold himself back from Sam any longer.

“There is someone, Sam.

Sam stopped abruptly around whatever he’d been preparing to say, and did a double-take. Dean at once looked away, embarrassed, and took a longer drink of his ale, until the tankard was only half-full, taking great care to place it down on the table and watch the liquid slowly bring itself back to a still equilibrium.

“What?”

Dean shot a glance at his brother, who looked altogether incredulous at the admission.

“Just... there is someone. It’s alright, you don’t need to worry.”

“What? Who?”

Sam leaned forward, brow furrowed, tankard still cradled in between his hands.

“Just... a girl, from Rehin. For a while now.” The lie slid out smoothly, even in the face of his brother’s anxious gaze. In part, Dean thought, it might have been as a result of the fact that it was anchored in the truth. There _was_ someone.

“What her name?”

Dean started at the sudden question, but managed to stutter out: “Cas...sie. Her name is Cassie.”

Sam raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything else, only watching his brother carefully. “And this girl... you’re serious?”

Dean looked at his brother from beneath his brow for a moment before he looked away, back to his drink and his vague reflection. Serious was such a silly word to put to Cas, like they were in the midst of navigating some rigorous courtship, where any foul word might go amiss. The truth was, that had passed long ago, with the first visit to the cabin. Where things were with Cas now, well, they were like Garth had said – they were certain, easy and utterly enthralling. As if they had always been a constant factor only recently discovered. It didn’t matter that parts still felt new – that their bodies were simultaneously unlearned by one another, and Dean was beginning to find himself incapable of speech at points, around the majesty and raw power that was merely Castiel’s restrained human form. It was there, with surety and truth, as part of Dean as long as he had known himself.

“It’s complicated. I mean...he-she’s... she’s really special, Sam.”

Dean’s voice dropped fondly with the words, almost completely unwittingly, but the effect had Sam swelling opposite him, almost buoyant with sudden, unexpected elation of the revelation.

“Who is she? Can I meet her?”

“No. I... it’s complicated. I wish you could, Sammy. I really wish you could. But... it’s not possible.”

Sam nodded mutely, and although he’d seemingly been excited at the prospect, there was little deflation as he watched his brother, raising his tankard in a silent toast. Dean grinned at the vague memory of Castiel’s hand around his own tankard, and his blatant distaste. He wondered if it might be affected now, based on the fact that it had drugged them from their own stupor and brought them together in a way that Dean never would have had the courage to initiate, and would have been the biggest regret of his life.  Sam caught the expression as he raised his tankard to his lips and took a swig, and his own responding grin endured as they both placed the tankards down and looked away from one another embarrassedly.

“You’re in love, aren’t you?”

“I-“ Castiel’s face welled up in Dean’s imagination, expectant and honest, dull in the forest’s light but bright with the anticipation of the words, and Dean couldn’t help but to bring his hand to his mouth, and smother them before they escaped him. They were Cas’ words, and they were for Cas, before anyone else.

Sam didn’t note the gesture, other than to reach forward and to clap his brother on the shoulder, a kind of pride bringing a sheen to his cheeks and straightness to his posture. “Then that’s all that matters, Dean. That’s all that matters.”

...

** 2013 **

Jessica looked fit to burst at the end of the story, across from Castiel, leaning forward eagerly and eyes bright. As seemed to be her usual practice now, she’d taken Castiel’s hand at some point during the narrative, and was squeezing it tightly between hers. A quick glance at Keith demonstrated he was hardly put out by the gesture, but seemed instead entirely caught up in the clear excitement written across Jessica’s features, and the way she balanced so much of her weight on her toes, rather than the couch, as though she may stand and dance with celebration at any moment.

When Castiel stopped, judging it an appropriate time to end the storytelling for the evening, she seemed to imagine that she would reach forward and hug him excitedly. Despite the obvious fact that Dean was lost to him since the story, there was a certain beauty in reliving it, and he found himself caught up with the same frantic excitement he had been then, before things had gone sour. Jessica seemed influenced by it too, for when Castiel’s words trailed off, and he dropped his gaze to her hand, she loosened her hold and opened her mouth to speak.

Instead, they were interrupted by Greg’s quick motion from the chair opposite, as he raised himself roughly, and (stumbling lightly, although he seemed to ignore it in the hope that they would too), rushed for the door, slamming it before any of the room had a change to address his strange behavior. Castiel stood up as he heard Greg making his way down the stairs, almost at a run, and was halfway across the room when he heard the sound of the door slam and the Chevy rumble to life.

“Cas.” Jess’ words were futile, and Castiel crossed the room regardless to look out the window as he saw the wagon tear from the area.

Greg careered from the parking lot with little care for the passing cars on the road, and was treated to abuse as he nearly ran himself directly into one, not leaving enough time to turn the massive wagon onto the road. A squeal was the last they heard as Greg departed at a rapid pace along the road, and beyond a corner where the wagon passed out of Castiel’s vision, and a moment later, the sound from his hearing.

A heavy silence descended upon the room almost immediately, and for at least a minute no one spoke, although each of the group inhaled carefully once, as though they intended to speak but immediately thought the better of it. Eventually, it was Sam rather than Jessica who made the nervous crossing to where Castiel stood by the window, peering out, although it was evident Greg was long departed from the vicinity.

“Cas? You ok?”

Castiel’s brow furrowed and he looked back to Sam, trying to restrain the pleading he felt rise in him in response to the sudden abrupt change in Greg’s demeanor, and the loss of the efforts he had poured in for day’s previously.

“I don’t understand. What did I do?”

Sam stared at him for a moment gormlessly, before looking back to Jessica and Bobby, neither of whom seemed to have anything useful to say. Castiel turned to look for himself when Sam volunteered nothing, and while Jessica studiously avoided his gaze, Bobby extracted his phone from his pocket and tapped at it in irritation, mumbling: “I’ll call the bastard.”

He did so three times, to no avail, and eventually deposited the phone back in his pocket, shaking his head and assuming Jessica’s position of avoidance. Sam bit his lip and turned back to Castiel, eyes wilting at the side and mouth a hard line of unspoken concern. Castiel took the insinuation without waiting for confirmation, instead turning and making his way slowly back to the couch, where he deposited himself without much ceremony and leaned backwards, staring blandly at the wall in front of him.

The group waited a few moments, as though he might say something, before conceding that he would not. Eventually, Jessica reached forward and took one of Castiel’s hands once again, and Sam followed suit by following Castiel and placing his hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly enough to assure him of his presence without overstaying his welcome. They both breathed carefully for a moment, before Sam’s hand twitched and he murmured out: “Sorry, Cas” before the room fell silent for a long time, before Bobby eventually got up to prepare dinner and the other two peeled off to their room – evidently to try calling Greg again – leaving Castiel to his thoughts and his sudden concern that Dean might never be recovered.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                                                                                                                                                                  


	20. Beside You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dearest ones! 
> 
> I hope you have had a most excellent week, and I am ecstatic that you are joining me again this week for this latest instalment. This chapter is smut, and love, and horrors. I hope the mix is not jarring.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your kindness in reading, and leaving kudos and comments. I love you all.

** CHAPTER NINETEEN **

** 1425 **

The forest was quiet when Dean’s party returned to the Road, but after Balthazar’s mentioning of the fact that Alastair’s group had had a run in and Cas’ description of the haunted site he had found in the forest, Dean was more cautious. Still, he took the opportunity the first night on the Road to let Cas know that he would prefer to be closer to his men during the week they were travelling. Cas hadn’t been at all surprised, nor had he conveyed any kind of disappointment. Still, as Dean prepared to leave, Castiel had reached out for his hand, and pulled him back for a soft, fleeting kiss before he’d promptly turned and walked back into the forest, drawing a blade as he left.

The group carried out their new meat practices, but Dean suspected Castiel was carrying his own on much deeper in the forest, for some nights their sacrifices were left almost entirely untouched, and oftentimes it was difficult to make out whether Castiel was as close to the party as usual. He popped in once or twice though, and Dean saw him perched in some tree or other – almost predatory in his careful posture and silence. They reached Bazanne without incident though, enjoying some relaxed nights where there was no vile chorus, and the men were in good spirits. Dean carried out the usual brief, and spoke with the City’s watchman regarding the final trade before Winter. Things went smoothly, and Dean was able to depart the City in the early hours of the morning, after making a token appearance at the City’s inn where his men drank and made merry – making a few casual jibes at his soldiers and warning those with their arms slung around local women to behave.

Oddly though, when Dean managed to exit the City – explaining to the gatekeeper Ardus’ new sanctuary scheme in order to allow passage – he walked for hours without running into Castiel. The forest was quiet prior to dawn – every organism took the opportunity for respite before the swell of activity woke them. Dean kept his whispers of Castiel’s name to a minimum, even then, for fear that Castiel’s absence meant something more sinister. And after an hour with no kind of answer, Dean drew his weapon too, and began combing the area for signs that Castiel had arrived here at all – carefully investigating, but trying not to imagine the possibility he had been waylaid.

By the time the sun rose and the crickets were chirping, Dean was panicking more properly. Imapla had sensed it and grew skittish, jumping at small noises in the forest in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic given her extensive training and experience on the Road. When the day’s sounds grew enough to mask Dean’s general movement through the forest he took to calling for Castiel with more vigour. The calls weren’t quite yells – he knew that was both unwise and unnecessary – were Castiel in the vicinity he would hear them, regardless. And without cogent evidence, Dean couldn’t let his imagination run away with him, and put Castiel’s non-appearance down to injury or worse.

Still, mid-morning Dean was forced to break and water Impala. He seated himself by the river that ran past Bazanne, a few miles out from the City walls and took a temporary break. The release of tension aggravated his growing concern as to Castiel’s whereabouts, and eventually he took to pacing up and down the river in order to push the issue from his mind for a few moments. The activity did little to quell the fear, and instead only riled up Dean’s body so that it corresponded with the frantic concern of his mind, until the pace became a repetitive job up the river.

Castiel appeared for him after around ten minutes, and although Dean’s panic quickly turned to anger and being forced to endure the torment of his imagination in Castiel’s absence, that didn’t stop him from advancing on the Angel and pulling him close for a bruising kiss as greeting. Castiel participated passively, allowing Dean to work out a little aggravation as he clutched at Castiel’s jaw and pulled it forwards, bringing Castiel’s mouth flush against his, and parting his lips with an aggressive swipe of his tongue.

It was hard though, under Castiel’s touch, to remain angry, when his taste and scent were so comforting after a week apart. Eventually, Dean conceded and softened the kiss, allowing Castiel to pull away when he desired and pull Dean closer for a calmer embrace.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What happened, Cas? I was… I was thinking the worst.”

Castiel didn’t respond for a moment, but merely leaned into Dean, using one hand to hold Dean’s hair as Castiel pressed his face into his neck and letting the other arm drape around Dean’s waist. Dean reciprocated the embrace carefully, but tightened his hold gradually as a small shiver started to wrack Castiel, first with a buzz but then with fitful bursts. As Castiel’s muscles began to twitch and convulse in a terrified dance, Dean pulled him towards him properly and moved a hand beneath the shape of Castiel’s wings to rub at the bear skin there, softly and vigorously when he felt Castiel begin to move away from him, although physically he stayed rooted to the spot.

“Cas? Cas, what happened?”

Castiel shook his head into Dean’s neck and moved his face so that Dean felt the press of Castiel’s eyelashes against his skin where he drove his eyes into the darkness there.

“Cas.”

“A moment… please. Just…a moment. Just…”

Castiel nestled back into Dean’s neck and Dean allowed him too, as the shivers turned to trembles that tightened Castiel’s grip in Dean’s hair so that a few strands were pulled beyond their capacity so that the skin tightened painfully.

Castiel sniffed a few times into Dean’s neck and pressed closer. His mouth was muffled against Dean’s skin, but the touch was not like previously. The touch sent Dean’s heart pounding, but this pounding was a cold, fierce tingle that made his mouth taste like iron and the sweat on his skin dry instantly.

“Cas? Cas. Remember to breathe.”

Castiel didn’t respond, but pulled tighter into Dean, and Dean was forced to recoil a little to give Castiel the space to breathe that he clearly was ignoring the need for. When Castiel attempted to follow the movement, Dean twisted his head and pressed his forehead against Cas’, to prevent Castiel moving closer and taking the opportunity to look into his eyes.

Castiel kept his firmly closed, however, and merely exhaled shakily. Dean brought his palms to Castiel’s cheeks and held him there, bringing his nose to Castiel’s too and breathing out carefully in slow deep breaths, willing Castiel to mimic him.

Castiel nodded a few times, in understanding of the request, though he was not able to imitate it, until Dean surged forward and pressed his lips against Castiel’s carefully. While their lips were pressed together, Dean sighed softly into the kiss and eventually Castiel conceded to breathe out before pulling away and inhaling carefully.

Dean smiled softly and offered a little praise with a swipe of his thumb across Castiel’s cheekbone, and Castiel leaned ever so carefully into it. When he did concede to open his eyes, Dean almost wished that he hadn’t, because Castiel was crying. And the tears, it seemed, were a fitful desperate effort to cleanse his body of the torture that plagued it.

…

The body was charred and black. The feathers were almost entirely dispersed into the air through the flames, except for a few brittle anchors that remained in the parts of the flesh that hadn’t been taken off by the ravaging. The stink was worse – the mixture of dessicated flesh and spilled, sticky blood and bile mingling in the air permeating every sense – somehow even inducing nausea through touch and sight.

The head was different, rotting in the heat of the summer sun hanging from the tree where it had been pierced by a branch from the neck to the crown. The mouth hung open gormlessly – maybe in a howl that cursed its creator, or maybe snarling in pain. Maybe it even hung limp, falling that way in death before rigor mortis set in.

Perhaps it would have been merciful to burn it, for the skin hung shallowly, sucked into the skull to decay, and growing thinner with the exhaustion of death. Where the gums receded, the teeth were longer, and the decay stank eve from meters away.

When Castiel returned to the body, he froze well beyond it, and Dean was forced to make the trek and investigation alone. He surveyed the area for the marks that attested to what had occurred there, and when. And to discern, through the fury and terror and pain that haunted this place, what was left.

There was little to see, for the fire had ravaged the area, and the form of the Angelus was largely lost – aside from the skeletal parts left. With the loss of flesh, muscle and organs, and the expanse of its wings behind it, it was like a small animal carcass, so often come upon in these woods, passing slowly through the necessary passage to return to the earth that bore it. And while Dean knew that this would not deter this creation from re-animating and re-establishing itself some day, it was hard to see beyond the death that controlled it currently. Surely, even when the day came, where this clearing was no longer host to this body, it would be dead still – that kind of experience could never be left behind.

When Dean returned to Castiel, he had taken the opportunity to cry in Dean’s absence. He bore the marks of the activity bravely, not moving his hand to hide the shiny streaks that descended down his cheeks. But neither did he make mention of them, and his stony demeanor made clear that he would not allow Dean to draw attention to them either.

Dean didn’t, instead only seating himself behind Castiel and taking his hand, twining their fingers together and running his thumb slowly along the knuckles that he could reach, marking the form of the bone and committing it to memory. Castiel was still beneath his hand, but it barely mattered, for the fact that he would allow Dean to touch him was concession enough to show that his presence was desired.

“His name was Gabriel.”

“You knew him?”

“At one time or another, I knew all of my brothers and sisters. At least by name. But Gabriel was more. He was one of our number, when were the last.”

Dean nodded silently, recalling the manuscript that Castiel had let him read when he first returned to the cottage, and the details of the Angels listed there, that had dispersed when their circumstance became too much. Those that Castiel did not know the whereabouts of the circumstances of, including whether or not they were alive. Until now, that is.

“I’m so sorry, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t acknowledge the apology, although that meant little. An apology was hardly necessary, nor would it have any effect upon the picture before them, except to fill the silence for a moment otherwise only inhabited by the buzz of flies, and the sounds of a few predators in the near vicinity, presumably waiting their turn to scavenge.

“I had hoped that he was alive. I knew it was unlikely, but… It was almost as though he were invincible. He used his power so wantonly, but it never seemed to deplete.”

Dean tightened the grip of his fingers around Castiel’s and moved their entwined hands so that they rested against Castiel’s leg. With the space between them freed, Dean slid closer and pressed his arm against Castiel’s, before turning and staring at his shoulder, as close as he dared.

“He was the most powerful of those of us that remained. He was an Archangel – their Grace is the strongest, and entirely unfettered.”

Castiel dropped his head so that his eyes were torn from the sight of his brother before him. Dean brought his free hand to wrap around their entwined ones, encasing the part of Castiel’s hand that was bared to the air. A massive shiver wracked Castiel’s entire body spontaneously, and he turned away from the clearing, searching desperately for the sight beyond them and the empty expanse of trees. Dean immediately let go of Castiel’s hands in favor of reaching to support him, and holding him in a sort of embrace, alternating between supporting his weight physically, and merely being a presence to collapse into. Castiel wrenched out a dry sob, before turning to press himself into Dean’s shoulder and breathing harshly. For a few moments, Dean worried he might lose Castiel twice in one day, but one moment later, Castiel seemed to return, although he brokenly murmured out: “they took his wings, Dean.”

Dean reached up and commenced running his fingers through Castiel’s hair, down the back of his skull, and rubbing across the back of his neck assuringly. Castiel quieted under the gesture, and eventually pulled his face from Dean’s shoulder to lean into it. When he pulled back and looked in Dean’s eyes again, his pupils dilated and he at once reached forward and pulled Dean’s mouth to his, mouth already open and tongue ready for purchase. Dean allowed it for a moment, but when Castiel seized on him determinedly, he pulled back softly, licking his lips and ignoring the pull of Castiel’s hands at his face.

“Cas.”

“Dean, please.”

“No. Cas, what are you doing?”

Castiel didn’t answer, but pulled on Dean’s face again. This time, Dean let him pull him forward and smother his lips with another bruising kiss, taking the taste of Dean desperately and wantonly, with a fervor that spoke to more than just desire and urgency.

Dean let Castiel continue longer, and responded when Castiel growled against his unmoving lips, but as soon as he obtained the opportunity, he withdrew again, and left Castiel to rest against his cheek.

“Cas.”

“Dean. Please. Take me out of here. Please. Touch me.”

He kissed Dean’s cheek desperately, and pulled Dean closer by letting hands descend to his waist and tugging. Dean relaxed and let Castiel pull him nearer, but kept his lips out of reach.

When Castiel’s searching hands did nothing, he growled again and sought out Dean’s mouth. Dean pulled away once more, carefully, letting Castiel’s lips touch his briefly rather than forcing him away. Castiel admitted defeat this time, and let his nose drop to Dean’s throat where he huffed out urgent breaths.

“Please, Dean. I need to be near you.”

“Cas, not here.”

“Then take me out of here. Now.”

Dean’s neck lolled to the side involuntarily as Castiel bared his teeth against the flesh there and scraped his teeth along it.

“Christ, Cas. You just found… his body is right there.”

Castiel’s breath held for a moment, and he pulled his mouth away from Dean’s skin, and sat up straight, apart from him, breathing heavily.

“Cas, what you’re asking is…”

“Would you do it for me, if I asked?”

A kind of sickness curled in Dean’s gut – more than nervousness, but different to fear, as Castiel stared at him, flushed and brazen.

“When you’ve just… Cas…”

“Would you?”

Dean hold his breath for a moment, while he considered the question.

“I would. For you. But not for me. Cas, I don’t want…”

“Then please take me from here.”

Castiel stared at Dean in a silent plea, all shivers having ceased, but seeming to congregate in Castiel’s heartbeat, which felt audible throughout the clearing. Dean’s vision even seemed to pulse with it, and it made him terrified and desperate all at once. A tiny fragment, he supposed, of what Castiel was feeling.

Dean reached forward and kissed Castiel lightly, and the Angel let him do so, softening beneath the tender touch and allowing Dean to gauge its length and intensity. When Dean withdrew, he knew the touch had done its job, for Castiel seemed to deflate a little before him, and allowed Dean to stroke across his cheek reverently, and turn his face back when his eyes threatened to drift back to the body.

“Cas, I will take you out of here. And I’ll… I’ll touch you. But first… I’m gonna take care of things here first, alright?”

Castiel nodded dumbly and allowed Dean to lean in and kiss him again, even softer – the butterfly touch of this first kiss all over again, perhaps, and then settled back, staring aimlessly at the forest behind them as Dean walked back to the site and gathered together the body, taking care to stifle his retches when he was within Castiel’s earshot.

…

Dean had a small tool in his pack with Impala that doubled as a shovel. It was multi-purpose, and certainly not fit for a proper burial process. But on occasion, digging with the guard could be useful – for traps and so forth, and to create fire pits in the cool evening.

Digging a proper grave would have taken hours, perhaps even days, if it had been of appropriate dimensions and sufficiently deep to keep the body away from predators. In absence of the time or the energy to provide that, Dean settled for digging a far narrower, deep hole, wide enough to take the creature in parts, and for Dean to stand in it. The process took several hours, during which time Castiel didn’t move from his position, back to Dean and staring at the forest.

He moved when Dean took the head from the branch, and congealed blood and other substances emerged from the creature’s mouth. Dean jumped back in disgust to avoid the touch of the bile to his body, and by the time he looked back to Castiel, he had taken flight and presumably travelling far enough out of earshot that the sound of what Dean was required to do next could not be heard.

The bones were dry and charred, and breaking them into pieces was easy. While Dean lay the first few reverently in the hole, his growing nausea with the activity and his concern for where Cas had gotten to in the forest soon rendered that consideration redundant, and eventually he was forced to toss the bones in the grave as though he would a bone of an animal from which the meat had been stripped.

The hole was filled quickly, but Dean didn’t call Castiel back immediately, instead departing for the river atop Impala and scrubbing frantically at his skin to rid it of the stench. It was more for Castiel’s sake than his, for much as Dean was astonished and repulsed at what he had just been forced to do, he could only imagine it was infinitely worse for Castiel to have known of that, and worse still to smell the after effects even after the memory was left alone in that clearing in the woods.

He was at the grave when Dean returned, with a pile of wildflowers assembled haphazardly by his feet. Dean didn’t disturb him, but reached down to pick up the bunch (clearly dropped at some point), and rearranged them, before leaving them at the spot which Castiel had marked with a small rock, carved with a symbol Dean did not recognize.

As soon as he was not indisposed, Castiel took his hand and stared gormlessly at the site, until Dean lead him away from it, and nudged him towards Impala. Castiel climbed atop her willingly enough, and shifted back in the saddle so that Dean could mount and seat himself on the mare in front of him. When Dean clicked his tongue and Impala started forward, and Castiel fell backwards, he was forced to reach behind himself and wrap Castiel’s arms around his waist. Castiel allowed him to do so, and pressed his forehead against the back of Dean’s neck, silent for the duration of the trip until Dean led them miles away from the site and set them up in a small clearing where the stench was lesser, but the emptiness of death still haunted the area.

…

Castiel remembered the afternoon, although he remembered it blankly, as though it had been recounted to him and he had been but a silent audience to its incidents. By the time they reached the clearing there was only an hour or so left of daylight and Dean left Castiel, with a careful look but no words, to set up a small fire and shelter for them. Castiel was aware of him as he moved around in the perimeter, carving sigils into trees and on the ground, and felt his careful watch was he sat in the dirt, cracking at a flint for the first sign of flame. When Dean returned, they both assembled a small shelter together wordlessly, using a thick material that Dean had in his pack to create a roof and camouflaging with deadened foliage.

The evening passed in silence, and Dean seemed overcome with a kind of bleak worry that saw him careful to stay apart from Castiel as they both gazed wordlessly into the fire. When the dark fell, they tried to hide the flame as long as possible, but eventually Dean conceded that they would have to forfeit it, which he demonstrated by wordlessly pulling two blankets from his satchel and arranging them in the shelter.

Still, even though that place was set for them, Castiel remained outside, and Dean came back to him, sitting beside him and looking into the dying embers. When Castiel turned to look at him he was evidently aware of the gaze although he didn’t reciprocate it, or in fact acknowledge it at all, until Castiel leaned forward and pressed a wet, open kiss into his cheek.

Dean obliged the touch for a moment, even allowing Castiel to turn his face and bring his lips into a kiss. But when a roar of vicious desire within him saw Castiel claw forward, eager to taste Dean, Dean withdrew in protest and murmured against Castiel’s lips:.

“Cas, calm down.”

Castiel kept their foreheads together with his hands, murmuring in aggravation.

“You said you would touch me.”

Dean shook his head and pulled back, taking one of Castiel’s hands from his cheek and bring it to his lap, clutching it tightly within his.

“Slow down.”

“Dean.” Castiel reached forward again and captured Dean’s lips with a frantic force with a kind of abandon that had not been evident in their intimacies so far. Dean responded quickly, disentangling himself from Castiel and sliding further away. His own hand when to his chest, and he looked at Castiel, almost in an accusation, as he felt at the frantic rush of his pulse in panic, in mimicry of Castiel’s.

Even though he was further from Castiel, Dean spoke as if he held him in an embrace, and murmuring into his skin, although his eyes were wide with a plea for recognition.

“Hey, Cas. You’re here with me. You’re not one of them yet. It’s alright.”

Castiel shook his head and moved forward, moving his hand so his fingers could entwine with Dean’s at this chest. Dean’s squeezed their hands together tightly against him, and brought Castiel’s knuckles to his chest, pressing them there in assurance.

“I want you, Dean. While I can. Before it happens.”

Castiel moved closer, until their noses were pressed together lightly. Dean swallowed, keeping tight-lipped in the face of Castiel’s harried breaths across his skin, and shook his head.

“You’ll have me. I promise.”

“Now.”

Castiel leaned forward and Dean let the kiss last for a moment before pulling away. “Cas…” Castiel dropped out of the kiss and let his nose rest against Dean’s cheek. A second later, the tremors were back and he pulled away quickly from Dean, running a hand across his face in frustration: “I’m sorry.”

Dean followed Castiel as he moved away, suddenly relenting in his reluctance. Dean reached forward hesitantly, capturing Castiel’s free hand again and bringing himself so that his chest aligned with Castiel’s shoulder. Carefully, he let his face drop into Castiel’s hair and his other hand descend to the skin beneath Castiel’s wings, where he rubbed sympathetic circles into the fabric there.

“Cas. No. I’m sorry, I… I want you too. But I can’t… not like this, with what you’ve seen. If I touch you right now, it’s because you think it’s goodbye.”

Castiel paused for a long time, before he looked up at Dean carefully, and Dean leaned in to carefully press his lips against Castiel’s once, before murmuring: “You understand, don’t you?”

Castiel nodded lightly and leaned to kiss Dean again, staying near him and leaning closer to press their temples together. Dean let out a careful breath as he let his hand drop from Castiel’s face to his collarbone, tracing lines there and spelling out words that meant nothing but everything simultaneously.

It was a comfort, for Castiel’s body was frozen, and the trace of Dean’s touch was a warmth that summoned him back momentarily in tiny parts, though when Dean’s touch left him again, the skin seemed to cake over with frost and the shivers returned, in isolated twitches as his body cried out for restoration. His vocal chords felt paralyzed by the enormity of it, and his voice shook and jumped too as he scraped out hoarsely:  “Please Dean.”

Dean withdrew the touch almost immediately and settled for more careful traces to the back of Castiel’s neck – slow horizontal rubs that encouraged infinitesimal releases in the tension in Castiel’s muscles as he leaned more heavily into Dean’s chest. The proximity was enough to leave glowing spots on Castiel’s skin that pulsed with energy where the rest of him seemed to be deadening, and growing weak and brittle.

“Cas, I know you want this before it’s all over but…this isn’t something on a list we’re going to tick off before you become one of them. If I touched you now, it’s not permission for you to give up and accept that you’d…”

Dean stuttered around whatever words he had hoped to pronounce, and instead settled for leaning down and pressing a kiss into Castiel’s hair.

 “It’s not goodbye Cas. It’s not ‘once’ or ‘while we still can’. God, Cas…I want you so much, but…”

The words thrummed through Castiel, with a momentary flare of hopefulness, that was absorbed into his dry innards, but made little impact, leaving him feeling even more barren as he pressed himself closer to the warmth, and Dean responded by bringing an arm to hold Castiel close, and facilitate the press of their bodies.

“Cas, you’re trying to say goodbye to me, and… If I touch you, it’s because,” Dean’s voice cracked a little as he leaned down to nestle his face in Castiel’s hair again, “I am promising to touch and kiss every part of you over and over, every night, until you even look at me without feeling sick of that, and you’re begging me to stop.”

Dean’s own words seemed to strike something within him, and he pressed his nose against Castiel’s forehead, using it to indicate that Castiel raise his head and accept a soft, dry kiss to his lips.

“Cas, I can’t touch you again unless I know that you’ll fight for that too. You understand?”

The question was pressed within Castiel by the touch of Dean’s lips to his temple, and the light trace of Dean’s fingers across Castiel’s wings, voice soft and loving with murmurs of “please, Cas.”

When Dean finished, Castiel shook a little, and leaned forward, nosing Dean’s cheek.

“It will happen, Dean. If Gabriel-“

“ _This is not goodbye_ , Cas.”

They fell into silence for a moment, and Dean let Castiel return to the embrace against his chest, moving his hand to Castiel’s neck again and letting it drift in soothing light touches. Castiel sighed as his numb skin came alive again at that point, and his body began to call beneath it for further purchase, with rising hairs and goosepimpled skin.

Dean felt it, and it caused him to emit a shuddering breath, and a whisper carefully:  “This. Is. Not. Goodbye. If it is, you’re telling me that I’m not worth living for. That it’s not worth fighting for me to touch you again.”

The words were sharp, but Dean’s voice was only a murmur, soft and suggestive and endearing almost – a promise written there not yet said, and a quiet, desperate plea.

Castiel withdrew from Dean at once and claimed his lips, with two palms to the side of his face, and a hard, deliberate kiss. His own voice was a croak when he stammered out:

“You are worth living for.”

Dean’s voice cracked, and he reached forward to mimic Castiel’s hold on his face, fingers pressing into Castiel’s skull anxiously as he pulled him close and uttered:

“Then live for me. Don’t you dare say goodbye.”

Dean didn’t wait for an answer, instead surging forward to claim Castiel’s mouth with his in a messy slide of lips. When Castiel was taken by surprise, Dean didn’t wait for his permission before letting his hands descend to Castiel’s chest and wrenching at the material there. The laces stretched but didn’t give, and he at once commenced frantically trying to unknot them, despite his eyes being closed tight, fighting back tears that swelled in his throat.

Castiel responded quickly, pressing back against Dean with all the desperation of before, knowing now that his own anxiety to know Dean in however little time he had left was now met with Dean’s urgent hope that he could inspire Castiel enough to forfeit any thought of collapse.

And as Dean’s hands pressed at Castiel’s chest, fingers fumbling as he attempted to unknot the laces there, it felt as though Dean had, as the warmth of his touch spread across his chest and descended to his core to hum there.

Castiel learned from Dean’s mistake, and was more precise in his removal of Dean’s shirt, his fingers dexterously undoing laces and wrenching it over Dean’s head carelessly. Dean, although he didn’t quite manage with the laces, found enough give in the neck of the shirt that it would be sufficient to raise over Castiel’s head and at once reached behind Castiel to undo the laces there. Castiel’s hands were everywhere, scrabbling desperately for occupation while he waited out Dean’s removal of his clothing and the promise of skin on skin, and the electric touch of two hearts pumping blood across its surface with incredible desperation.

Castiel pulled Dean close, but was at a loss for how to proceed matters while he waited for Dean to finish. Dean was in no such state, and directed Castiel quickly, dropping his hands from Castiel’s back for a moment in order to draw Castiel’s hips to his, and rolling them together. Without the support of the ground beneath one of them, the power of the movement was lost, but there was enough of a press that Castiel let out a strangled whimper, and at once pushed Dean backwards. With Dean’s hands still struggling with his shirt, he couldn’t push him against the ground, but he instead pushed Dean to his knees, and clambered to his lap, placing a leg on either side of Dean and grabbing at his waist before thrusting forward.

The pleasure was sharper, and more intense, than it had been any time before. Castiel had always been careful, unsure and uncertain as to how to perform, and much had been lost in his cautiousness. But with that this could be the only concession they would ever make to Castiel’s circumstance, all concern was lost, and with it, so was the concern with artistry that had held them back before. Castiel was thrusting against Dean’s stomach, and Dean against the curve of his ass as his weight pressed it down against Dean’s thighs. For a moment, Dean lost concern for his task and held, panting at Castiel’s shoulder, clearly considering reaching climax still clothed. But Castiel’s hands were urgent and Dean’s skin and as their kissing became overtaken by gasps for breath, Castiel murmured against his lips: “touch me, Dean.”

Dean ripped apart the laces at the back with force, and at the sound, Castiel thrust even harder into Dean, jarring the muscles at his core, and simultaneously grinding down against Dean with such pressure that it almost hurt.

At once, Dean was pushing Castiel off of him, and rising up on his knees again, so they were pressed flush chest to chest. One hand explored Castiel’s chest with pinches and scrapes, while the other went to Castiel’s ass and pulled them together – their cocks now lining up beneath their breeches – and creating a remarkable mixture of sensations that sent warm rivulets coiling across Castiel’s skin to his extremeities. Somehow, the touch of Castiel’s cock against Dean’s, even with less pressure than before, was a thousand times better, as though Castiel could somehow feel Dean’s pleasure as well as his own, and the thought had Castiel’s heart beating out warmth through his veins.

Dean pulled away to work at Castiel’s for a moment, and when Castiel sighed at the temporary relief from the sensation of the desperation between them, Dean dropped one hand down between them, found the shape of Castiel through his breeches and squeezed. Castiel rolled back at once, pressing wantonly against Dean’s hand even though his mind cautioned that the feeling was too much, _too intense_ , almost painful in its magnitude. Dean allowed him a few rolls, before pushing him away in order to work at the breeches again, instead dropping his lips to Castiel’s neck and sucking at the skin there, clearly willing it to bruise.

Castiel imitated Dean in reaching for his breeches and fiddling with the laces there. A few times, amidst fumbling hands, they brought their pelvises together and thrust again, dropping their foreheads together and stifling moans that threatened to travel throughout the forest.

The moment Castiel’s breeches were dislodged, the quest became more urgent, and Dean moved away from Castiel to finish off with his own, leaving the Angel to remove his properly, sitting back and pulling them off. When Dean managed to do the same, Castiel leaned backwards on his elbows, spreading his legs to allow Dean room between them and flattening his wings along the ground.

Dean watched wide-eyed as he absorbed the shape of Castiel in the moonlight – obscured partially by shadow and barely visible before him in the heavy darkness beneath the treetops. As Castiel positioned himself his hand dragged past his cock, and he stifled a gasp at the sensation of his own touch, and Dean’s eyes fixed at that point, his body suddenly overcome with a visible tremor.

Castiel’s hand hovered back there, unsure of how to proceed, but delighted at the sensation. Dean, in response, moved forward quickly, knocking Castiel’s hand away, and taking him within his own fist, drawing out one long tug before he crashed his lips against Castiel’s own. Castiel moaned into the kiss desperately, arching at the drag of skin across him and keening as it ended. Dean lay slightly to the side, rubbing himself along Castiel’s thigh and leaving room for his hand to maneuver before dragging his hand back down the length and pulling again, this time pressing himself against Cas and rolling with the movement. Castiel scrambled desperately to hold Dean, caught between his back and his ass, while they kissed. But when the exertion began to affect their breathing, and they were forced to pull back to gasp in more air, he moved his hands to Dean’s face and held them there, cradling it, as Dean stared at him, watching the way pleasure twisted his features.

Above him, Dean was incredible, mouth swollen with the force of Castiel’s kisses that he’d sought out, and slick with the taste of him. His eyes were wide and blown, and his mouth caught in a shape of astonishment which clenched when he rolled against Castiel and was hit with every wave of pleasure.

“God. God, Cas. _Ah._ ”

As he found the right movement, he pulled against Castiel harder, and Castiel arched beneath him, wings beating against the ground with the sensation as he felt Dean’s urgency vibrate through him. His skin was almost numb with the exhilaration of it – each touch contributing to a kind of buzz of pleasure that sat atop him and vibrated, spiking with each movement of Dean’s fist.

“Cas. Please. Please tell me that, _ah!_ ”

He leaned forward once and kissed Castiel messily before withdrawing to draw a labored breath and thrusting harder, this time a little more erratically and aimlessly.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean pulled hard at Castiel and suddenly the sensation across him left his skin to shoot to his belly, and up his cock, exploding onto Dean’s fist and up across his chest. Dean heaved out a breath and drew his hand along Castiel again, momentarily ceasing his movement to watch the pleasure ebb out of Castiel between them, seemingly incredulous. When the act stopped, Dean leaned back a little, supporting his weight with one arm, and moving his other between them to repeat the action on himself. His eyes closed, and he gasped out Castiel’s name as Castiel reached upwards with his mouth and kissed Dean’s chest, then sucked on his nipple, swirling his tongue around its hard edge.

“Please. _Cas_.”

The sound of Dean’s hand upon himself grew more frantic and Dean threw his head back, as Castiel pushed Dean up onto his knees, and raised himself to meet him, taking Dean’s face in his hands and kissing him with every ounce of desperation and dread he had left in him. Dean cried out into the kiss as he continued to pull at his cock, but when Castiel’s tongue slid into his mouth, he lost himself and Dean’s cry purged the ice from Castiel’s body and banished it momentarily beyond the sacred circle of sigils Dean had drawn for them.

Dean’s breaths were uneven, not just with exertion, but with fear, as he reached forward and pulled Castiel into a rough kiss, more power than it was sensation, but that made its meaning plain nonetheless. “Cas.”

“It’s… it’s not goodbye, Dean… I-“

Dean didn’t let him utter the final words he intended and pulled him forward into another kiss, repeating the sentiment Castiel had hoped to express back in unpronounced movements of his lips for hours before they fell, entangled together, onto the forest floor, and Castiel wrapped them both in his wings. Above them, the forest was quiet, and the howls of the Angelus indiscernible in the sound of the other’s breathing as they clung together, shivering as their bodies slowly descended to reacquaint with the environment around them.

When Dean was finally silent, Castiel was able to reach forward, and mumble quietly against his skin, with unabashed care, tinged with terror:

“I love you, Dean. I promise.”

Dean stirred a little in fitful sleep, and pressed his face deeper into Castiel’s neck, tightening his grip around Castiel’s bicep painfully and pulling himself closer. Castiel wrapped the arm around Dean tighter in response, and squeezed him until he was sure that the breath might almost go out of him. But within that rough embrace, Dean quieted and his breathing evened, enough that Castiel felt safe enough to let himself sleep too. At least, until he woke, a few hours later, drenched with sweat from a dream in which he stood before Dean, words at the ready to express every promise that Dean required, but finding he could only hack and growl and screech.

Dean woke with him, and held Castiel’s forehead against his own, until his breathing evened and his eyes saw properly beyond the film of the dream to Dean’s saddened smile, and crinkled eyes, and the shape of his mouth forming the words: “I need you, Cas. Stay with me.”

…

** 1425 **

“Cas, why when you were telling that part when you found… you told it from Dean’s perspective.”

Jessica stared at Castiel across the room, holding Sam’s hand tightly and leaning against him, while Bobby sat tense and rigid across from them beside Castiel.

“I… Dean had to inform me of much of what happened. I remember what was there, but I can scarcely describe it. I used his words because they were the only ones I knew how to find.”

“You don’t remember…?”

“I remember what passed after that, yes. Dean would never have… if he thought that I was not…”

Jessica leaned forward quickly. “It’s ok, Cas. We get it. I get it, I mean. Here.”

She stood up quickly, and Sam, who was not quick enough to respond, followed rather than extricate his hand from hers. “I’m going to make some tea, and then I’m going to call Greg again. Alright?”

Castiel nodded mutely and allowed her to make her way to the kitchen, Sam in tow. Bobby threw a sidelong glance at him from across the couch, but didn’t seem particularly possessed with the thought of saying anything.

Castiel settled backwards against the couch, mulling over the memory of Dean beside him. It had not been a goodbye, not then at least. But there had been one later. Somehow though, in the memory of all that had passed, it was that one that spoke to him. For that was the goodbye of desperation and anger at unfulfilled promises that should have been granted to them both by Castiel’s father. Even if Dean had not been forced to leave him later, for different reasons, that would have eventually been their goodbye in any case. For, pending explanation of how Castiel’s grace had been restored, it would have been his fate to become an Angelus, sooner rather than later.

“Greg… I know he’s… I don’t know what’s goin’ on but…”

Castiel turned to see Bobby watching him closely, eyes careful as he appraised him.

“What is going on?”

“You two. Your friendship or… look, not my place to talk about it. But… he’s hurtin’ Cas.”

Castiel blinked carefully and absorbed the way Bobby pronounced the phrase – it was bland enough, but there was accusation beneath it too, but veiled in a way that suggested that whatever Bobby was accusing Castiel of, he understood.

“I spoke to him on the phone last night.”

“But Jessica said that he wouldn’t-“

“Yeah, he won’t pick up her calls. But he phoned me. After you finished talkin’. Wanted to know what happened next in the story.”

Castiel stared at Bobby, who merely shrugged and produced his phone from his pocket, showing a list of words on the screen – many of which featured the name “Greg”. He didn’t quite understand the purpose of the gesture, other than Bobby seemed to wish to substantiate what he’d said, and he pocketed his phone calmly.

“I don’t understand what I did to upset him.”

Bobby smacked his lips together and rubbed at the side of his face tiredly, staring into the kitchen where Sam and Jessica were talking in hushed tones.

“To be honest, I don’t think he does either, Cas. All I know is that he’s called the past two nights, wanting to know what you told us today.”

Castiel looked away, brow furrowing.

“At first we thought… well, we thought he was a bit bothered by some o’ the stuff that you… shared with us. But, s’more than that. I mean, I’m not too enthused by all this jabber about sex beneath the stars and that, but I a’int walkin’ out for days on end.”

Castiel turned back to Bobby, momentarily distracted from the matter at hand, enough to stutter out, blushing: “Was that not… appropriate?”

Bobby laughed once, although his face was so obscured by his beard that a smile didn’t properly register on the skin – to Castiel’s eyes at least. “Not what people usually do, but none of us really mind. Heck, I think those two in there got together because of it.”

Castiel squinted at the kitchen, to where Sam had left a hand trailing across Jessica’s back casually. She wasn’t quite leaning into the touch, but her acquiescence as she watched the kettle boil seemed to demonstrate enough contentment. He turned back to Bobby, eyes questioning, who laughed openly: “No, you idjit. Just that love stories, they get people inspired. Those two were missin’ the obvious. I a’int commentin’ on anything more than that.”

He leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “All I’m sayin’ is that whatever is goin’ on with Greg is complicated. An’ I’m tellin’ you because I think he’s an idjit for askin’ me not to. Just because he’s hurtin’, it’s not fair for him to be hurtin’ you.”

Castiel licked his lips once and stared at Bobby cautiously, working his way around the appropriate words for his next question. “What makes you think that he has hurt me?”

Bobby rolled his eyes and stood slowly, adjusting himself around stiff limbs and an aggravated hip. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I may not know what the hell is goin’ on with Greg, but I know that you talkin’ to us has a lot to do with him. And I think it a’int just the fact he was the one that found the tomb.”

He stood straight and leaned back, stretching his spine and allowing a few joints to pop. “Just remember he’s not the same person, Cas. He may sound like Dean, and look like him too. And I know you like watchin’ him. But just remember that Greg… he’s got problems, and he a’int a plaything in the mean time. You got that?”

The words were innocent enough and Bobby ambled from the room as though he’d done nothing more than address the state of the weather. Sam and Jessica barely seemed to register the conversation, and returned to the room cheerfully with four warm mugs, before Jessica left the room to make her phone call outside.

Sam and Bobby conversed generally enough, until she returned, shaking her head and sighing, before looking to Castiel to continue. Her face was impassive, as was Sam’s, and neither seemed to note Castiel’s cautious glance at Bobby before he re-commenced his storytelling, eyes cast downward, repainting Dean’s face in his mind’s eye.

 

 

 


	21. To Endure

** CHAPTER TWENTY **

** 1425 **

Contrary to his promise that it was not, upon waking to an easy and bright forest, so cheerily ignorant of his circumstance, it felt as though last night had been the farewell. But faced with Dean’s bright smile across the campfire, and his cheerful  offering of overly-charred toast, Castiel could not help but mentally obscure the threat of approaching darkness, in favour of a small smile and an easy, contented sigh of gratitude.

Dean blushed as Castiel stared at him over the fire, and eventually dropped his toast to the ground, murmuring “damn you”, before jumping over the top of its low flames and pressing his lips to Castiel’s, grinning and laughing against him as he pressed him back into the forest floor.

It might as well have been that last night was like any other night. No funeral, no first time intimacy, no frantic, desperate promises and most importantly, no farewell. They could have been a long-time married couple lying in bed on a Sunday morning, enjoying the promise of a lifetime. Dean’s kisses were easiness, joy and promise, and even if Castiel’s fears still clung to him like a heavy cloak of thunderclouds, they were forced away from him by Dean’s warm and playful touch.

Dean was unaffected by Castiel’s worry, as he leisurely let a hand slide under Castiel’s shirt to trace small circles there, and his own name with a joking smile. When he came across the dried remains of the night before, his mood changed, and with a bite to his bottom lip, he had his hand down Castiel’s breeches and was stroking him leisurely, teasing him with kisses in between Castiel’s gasps and keens. Castiel came with a wrangled cry, smothered with a kiss from Dean, and a nuzzle to his cheek.

When, dizzy and starry-eyed, he murmured the words he’d said the night before again, Dean smiled with a radiance beyond measure and fell on top of Castiel, kissing him for all he was worth against the forest floor. The snap of twigs in the forest had them springing apart before Castiel had had the change to do as he desired to Dean, and when it emerged that it was no more than a hare, they both laughed. Nonetheless, Dean was a little more on his guard after that, and whilst he accepted Castiel’s kisses willingly enough, his eyes were focussed on the forest around them and he wriggled away from any more intimate touch.

Castiel eventually departed for the river to wash himself, and while Dean surveyed his stature as he left, he held back from accompanying him, saying they didn’t have time to be in the river “for hours”. When Castiel returned, Dean was polishing his sword by the fire, but at sound of Castiel’s approach he stood up, sword at the ready and prepared for a fight. “Cas?” He whispered uncertainly, as his hand went to his waist to retrieve another dagger, before lowering them when he saw Castiel emerging from the treeline. He relaxed back to the cave mouth, rubbing his eyes a little tiredly, and grinning as Castiel approached: “next time, I’m coming with you. I just spent twenty minutes worrying over nothing.”

Castiel sat beside him and leaned against Dean in reassurance, before retrieving a few of his own weapons to sharpen. Dean continued with his sword for a few moments, before holding up the blade for his inspection.

“Beauty, isn’t she? She was my father’s.”

Castiel approached and extended his hand for the sword with curiosity, and Dean let the heavy hilt drop into his waiting palm. He performed a few quick movements with the blade, smiling at the light hum it made as it carved through the atoms in the air before it. “Exceptionally well made, for a human blade.”

“For a _human_ blade?”

Dean seemed utterly offended at once, and reached forward to snatch the blade from Castiel, continuing to rub it with his rag as though Castiel’s touch were a contaminant. “You’d be lucky to carry a blade like this.”

“I would,” Castiel confessed matter-of-factly, and he paused until Dean ceased his petty cleaning and looked back up at him, “but it would not be as suited to me as a blade made for my own kind, as I carry.”

He pressed the heel of his hand to the hilt of his own preferred blade at his waist. Dean raised an eyebrow and his mouth twitched.

“That pithy thing?”

“This _pithy thing_ has defeated you more times than you could count in our training, Dean. You ought to show it respect.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and rolled his blade across his palm, so that the hilt was properly placed for his grip. “Proper blade needs some weight behind it if you ask me.”

Castiel merely gave him a blank look as response, and Dean chortled before lowering his weapon and extending his hand for Castiel’s.

“Alright. Let me see then.”

Castiel approached without drawing the blade and seated himself beside Dean on the log. Dean nudged him a few times to taunt him into producing it, but when Castiel didn’t respond, he rolled his eyes and pulled him in for a quick, sloppy kiss. Against his lips, grinning, Dean murmured: “you know how much I like your blade. Can I see it?”

The innuendo wasn’t lost on Castiel, but he withdrew the blade from its scabbard with a blank expression and passed it to Dean, who chuckled lightly but otherwise continued seriously enough, holding it in front of him contemplatively. “You say these were made just for angels?”

“My father’s hand, by all accounts. Each one is manufactured specifically for its wielder.”

Dean paused for a moment, seemingly uncertain as to whether he was permitted to do so, until, with a small encouraging nod from Castiel, he twisted the blade in his hand, so that the point moved in a perfect circle through the air. He performed a few deft movements with his wrist, twisting and cutting as though severing the spine of a person, before thrusting forward in a pointe stance.

“It’s kinda like you, isn’t it?”

Castiel peered over at Dean, who met him with a comfortable green gaze and an unfazed expression. “What do you mean by that?”

“Smooth, silent, understated. But strong and… deliberate? I’m not sure, it’s a good blade Cas.”

He handed it back abruptly and without ceremony, and passed Castiel the rag with which he had been polishing his own sword, before leaning back and twisting his neck – releasing a few cracks generated the night before.

“Once this blade could kill any living being that walked this earth.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, and he looked back to Castiel, pouting slightly. “Even Angelus?”

Castiel nodded minutely and scrubbed hard at the metal, working away dried blood from a hunt a few day’s before.

“Not now. It’s as useless against them as your blade. But, before the Fall, it was the only way to kill an Angel.”

Dean nodded and leaned in close to Castiel, moving a hand to the small of his back and letting it rest there. “Did you ever kill one with it?”

“No. I was never commanded, and it would have been a betrayal of my kin to do so.”

Dean nodded and moved his thumb in circles across Castiel’s back slowly and certainly, offering a small but entirely necessary comfort. Castiel knew it would do him better to cease to speak of his brothers and sisters, and the time before the Fall – any conversation was inevitably a sacrifice to his well-being. But, in light of what he had seen the night before, it felt like a last disclosure. Dean would soon be one of very few humans to carry with them knowledge of the Angelus pastime, and the fact they had once been anything other than howling beasts. And however much time there was left, Castiel wanted him to inherit what he could.

Dean sensed the change in his mood, at once standing and extending his hand for Castiel to follow. Castiel let his hand be taken and his weight be heaved up from the log, although his eyes were still momentarily glazed over with the memory of how things had been before, and the hope that had remained when he had thought that his blade might have been the solution to his brothers and sisters’ plight as fallen. But it had not been, and now it was little more than a useless toy against inevitability – fallen as he.

Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand tight and pulled him forwards, across their campsite to where Impala was grazing quite contentedly by the river. He picked up her bridle silently, and she willingly let him prepare her for the ride, though he left the saddle where it rested atop a rock beside her. When he was done, he nudged Castiel towards her, until he was pressed up against her flank, looking back at Dean quizzically.

“Go on then.”

“What?”

Castiel placated the mare with a quick touch to her side, as she bristled in anticipation of the ride. Dean merely rolled his eyes and gestured to her bare back.

“You made me a promise, Cas. Now get on the horse.”

Castiel looked to the ground apologetically before doing as he was ordered and preparing himself to mount the mare. Dean gave him a leg up when the task proved difficult without her saddle, and Castiel settled himself across her back, jostling for comfort.

“You ever ridden bareback before?”

“I have not.”

Dean paused for a moment, mouth half open, before he snorted, and slapped Impala lightly on the back flank, joking: “you’ll learn quick enough.”

He needn’t have bothered, for the mare was waiting for permission, and she started forward briskly, circling Castiel around the clearing. Dean crossed his arms and watched them take a few circles, mouth twitching as he appraised them. Eventually, when they were at the far end, he yelled: “take her for a proper ride, Cas!” and gave a high whistle, which started Impala forward in a gallop.

Without the saddle, Castiel almost lost his seat on her, and was forced to give a quick flap of his wings to stay atop her back. The hint of the speed promised in those wings invigorated her, and at once she started forward with enthusiasm. The burst of speed had the same effect, and he was forced to move his wings again to correct his seat. With her excited whicker he beat them once again, before she lead them through a grove of trees and back to the river, following the grassy patch that ran along there for several miles.

Free of the tree covering, Castiel beat his wings properly, and allowed her free reign to lead them along her preferred path. She plunged her head forward and beat on harder, drawing on each thrust of Castiel’s wings to speed forward faster than she had ever managed before. Despite her frantic breaths and snorts, he could feel the beat of adrenaline beneath her skin, tingling and sweating with exhilaration.

The excitement was infectious, and it was obvious why Dean had insisted Castiel take Impala out for a ride, without explanation. Atop the mare, as they sped across the river, Castiel somehow felt more a part of the forest – more akin with its essence, as he felt simultaneously present everywhere and nowhere. The gusts of their path were fresh and tasted of everything in the forest – dirt, water, smoke, rot and new life, all at once, and Castiel’s skin came out in goosebumps at the overwhelming sensation of their speed against it.

His heart pounded too with the recklessness of letting the mare a free path. She nimbly darted amongst the rocks, catching  their weight where the ground became uneven and steering them a wide enough berth so that Castiel’s wings could remain at their full span.

Eventually, some miles down the river, she slowed, first to a canter, then a trot, until eventually she plodded happily to a stiller patch of river and lay her head to drink. The forest was quiet, aside from the hum of cicadas and birds – past the point in the morning of official chorus, but still chattering. More than anything else, Castiel was aware of the pound of his own heart and the exhilaration in his breathing, and the way he suddenly seemed full of boundless energy. Had Dean been with him at that moment, Castiel thought he might have crushed him with the sudden enormity of everything he felt for him. More than what he had said the evening before, although that for Dean had seemed to be the supreme declaration. But Castiel loved his Father, and his brothers and sisters, yet none could compare to what he would do for Dean if he asked. _I think I exist for your sake._

He let the mare amble back to Dean, although he was almost tempted to take the skies to make it back more quickly. But it would naturally ruin the occasion of his return if he should leave the mare in the forest. No doubt she was capable of caring for herself, but the risk was a silly one for a few lost moments. He promised Dean and he was now utterly certain that he intended to keep that promise – he would live for him, as though there were naught else to care for. And as long as Dean were there to care for him, he swore to offer him all that he had.

It took perhaps two hours to return, and Dean had evidently been training in the interim, for he had divested himself of his shirt and was lying, sweating in the sun, in the clearing. He was less concerned than he had been this morning at Castiel’s arrival, presumably comforted by the sound of hoofbeats, but he stood as they made their way back to the clearing, and waved for Castiel’s return. Castiel let the mare approach Dean, but when she became diverted by an interesting looking patch of grass, he dismounted her with haste and rushed towards Dean, arms reaching forward.

Dean laughed quizzically at first, but was silenced by the press of Castiel’s open-mouthed kiss against his lips, and the twist of their tongues together. A tree behind him provided the source of balance that Castiel determined they needed, and he pushed Dean up against it with careful enthusiasm, before slotting immediately to fill the gap of Dean’s hip where his stomach sloped slightly inward and pressing them together.

They pulled apart a few times to smile at one another, Dean evidently aware of the success of Castiel’s impromptu trip. His eyes crinkled and he smiled so wide his upper lip pulled back far above his teeth and left his pink gums on display. He ran his fingers across Castiel’s face tenderly and dropped playful kisses on his nose in between the passionate ones, opening and closing his mouth in aborted platitudes, which then became small gasps as Castiel dropped his hand and began stroking Dean through his breeches in imitation of the touch he had received the night before.

There was passion there, and Castiel was aware of the simultaneous thrum of their beings with unbridled contentment beneath their skin, and the way their heartbeats seemed to sync as he mouthed at Dean’s pulse point and traced his tongue there. But there was playfulness too, and a genuine delight that seemed to characterize the engagement – little laughs, nose nudges and so many smiles. There was time, and promise that passion and lack of restraint could come later. That everything could come later, and be realized over and over and over again.

Dean was a patient teacher, and when Castiel undid his breeches with uncertain fingers, he wrapped his hand around his and showed him the pace and tightness he preferred, and how Castiel could elicit gasps and keens from small touches here and there, and clever points of pressure. They kissed for the duration, even though at times Dean’s lips became paralyzed by sensation, and he could only huff contentedly into Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel moved his lips elsewhere. When he eventually came, he did so with his tongue deep inside Castiel’s mouth, and a smile at his lips. And when Castiel withdrew to appraise Dean’s flushed plump lips and sweating brow, Dean pulled their lips together as if for another kiss, but stopped short to murmur “I love you.” Castiel felt the words in the movement of Dean’s lips against his, and then in every kiss thereafter until they had both slid down the tree and Castiel was straddling Dean’s waist, kissing him lightly while Dean rubbed small circles into the flesh of his bare hipbones where he had rucked Castiel’s shirt up.

They didn’t speak for much of the afternoon, apart from of mundanities. Most was spent side by side, watching the afternoon sun pass across the sky, and tracing words and shapes into the skin of one another’s hands and arms until Dean fell asleep for an hour or so. When he awoke, he did so to find Castiel had packed his gear for him, and cleared their campsite, and he kissed him softly in thanks, and murmured another “I love you” into his neck.

There was little ceremony or disappointment in their farewell, except for a few kisses before Dean mounted his mare, and Castiel pressed a kiss to her neck in farewell too. He looked up to find Dean glowing at him, and was forced to support almost all of Dean’s weight as he slid partially out of his saddle to press one final kiss to Castiel’s lips.

“Worth it,” he protested contentedly, as Castiel was forced to push him back up into his saddle and calm an irritated Impala, who was frustrated at having so childish a rider, and swatted at his backside with her tail pointlessly. Castiel shared her disdain playfully with an arch of his eyebrow and a shake of his head as Dean shrugged, unfazed.

“I’ll see you on the Road on the way back. And I can try and arrange something for Winter. At least for a few weeks, once I’m back in the City.”

Castiel smiled and nodded, unbothered by the prospect of a three month break during Winter when he and Dean still had so many nights together before Dean returned to the City. And the spring nights when that followed. And Summer. And years and years to follow, as long as Dean wanted them. Darkness be damned

Dean winked once and reached out to squeeze Castiel’s proffered hand before he rode through the clearing, eyes confidently forward, knowing they would be laid upon Castiel again soon enough, and back towards the City.

…

They did meet every night. They were short meetings, generally, and borne mostly in silence of the vicinity of Dean’s men. Until the final night, at least, when Dean felt confident, so close to Ardus, to leave the men for an hour and escort Castiel further out into the forest, where he kissed him with a week’s worth of contained desire, and rutted against him until they were both naked, covered in sweat, and tingling beneath the stars. Castiel had to push Dean away from him and send him back to his men, for Dean sleepily tried to entwine them both and spend the night beneath the tree canopy, but he sent him away with a kiss and a promise that had Dean flushing bright red, and stumbling into a tree on his departure.

They agreed that Dean would be too busy within the City for the next few weeks for Castiel to bother waiting outside Aruds’ Gates for him. He would have to debrief the Lord Protector, the Royals and his men on the year’s activities, and there would be many celebrations at which he would be required to celebrate the year’s trading. Dean suggested after that he might be able to disappear to a “brothel” for one or two nights, and they could meet outside the City walls within the first few weeks of Winter. The snows would not commence for another few weeks after that, so they could discuss how best to see one another, when Dean knew his schedule. In the meantime, Castiel could return home, and prepare for the snows, and Dean promised he would bring sufficient food supply to assist Castiel with that too, since his preparations had been rather undone over the course of the year by Dean’s presence.

It took Castiel his usual three days to return home, and he was pleased to find upon his arrival that there were relatively few repairs to carry out prior to the change of season. Dean had done good work on his home over the year, and there were few leaks, and a reasonable supply of food in the interim. He was forced to disassemble Dean’s bed and return the furs to his nest, in anticipation of the nights growing cold quickly, but he figured Dean would scarcely mind, since he would have campaigned to share the nest in any case.

There was little boredom in the first week alone, for Castiel had inventory to take, and tasks to plan for the Winter. There were plenty of activities he delayed for the season, and given the time he had spent with Dean during the year, there were a backlog of items to keep him busy well into the colder months. In fact, it was almost a stretch to hunt for meat as he did in the early evening, both to feed himself and the Angelus, so occupied was he in the day. The first few nights he was unsuccessful and forced to leave the feeding post unattended. In the absence of flesh, the Angelus did not attend to his cottage. He did not even hear them across the forest at night.

Things became strange on the fourth night, though, when he did manage to make a kill and left the meat on the feeding post. Still, with fresh blood in the air, there were no screams of the Angelus. Castiel barely noted that, for the silent skies meant he fell asleep quickly and contentedly. It was not until the next night, when he returned with a second kill, that he noted only flies had touched the first. He left the second kill there and smeared a little more blood around the area that night, and this time waited for the howls in the evening. Still, none came, and on the following morning, he took to the skies in search of the location of his brothers and sisters. He saw a cluster up in the mountains in late afternoon, but they were few and offered little explanation as to the location of the others. He travelled in a wide circumference across the forest with little sign of life, apart from one or two lone creatures hovering at the ground below, feasting on their own kills. Castiel knew that the Angelus were often found in close vicinity to one another, even if they did not live in packs, and the absence of so many was slightly perplexing. Still, on the third night, he left a much larger kill for their benefit and stayed to observe the post.

It was not the first time he had done so. As part of his cautious experimentation with Gabriel and Anna, years ago, they had monitored the effects of their feeding practices and had come to observe that the creatures were far more docile when a meal was on offer. Although there had been one or two incidents where the group had not observed quietly enough, in general they had found that a sated Angelus was of lesser danger than an unfed one, and had grown comfortable with those in their area, that they considered “domesticated” (although they were careful to skip around that word wherever possible).

The sky was quiet until past midnight, and while Castile heard a few rustles, none appeared until early morning, when he conceded defeat and made his way carefully and quietly back to his cottage. The path before him was dark and twisting, though he knew it well enough from so many nights here that he didn’t require sight to manage it, placing his feet unconsciously, and thinking only of the warmth of his nest and the comfort of a little light to see by.

It was in that preoccupation that he missed the first signs of the fact that he was being stalked. The creature followed the rhythm of the pad of his own feet on the ground and so its movements were initially indiscernible. Its breathing was soft and in time with the gusts of winter wind that had started the blow through the night from the mountains, leaving behind traces of the temperatures that would soon follow. And so, it was not until it chose to reveal itself to him, by placing itself ahead of him on his path that he had any sentience of its presence at all.

At the sight of its shape before him, he froze and lowered himself slowly to a crouch, hoping that he might have been the first of the pair to witness their meeting. But the creature’s stoic position suggested that he had not, for it did nothing to move, staying frozen in the centre of the path. As carefully as he could, Castiel brought his hand to his waist, moving it inside his fur and taking hold of his blade. He was careful not to extract it before he was required, in order that the creature would not be aggravated, but he descended carefully to a fighting stance.

Still, the creature stood still and appraised him, although it wheezed lightly in response, and the foreign sound of its presence was suddenly made clear in the silence surrounding them.

Castiel made a minute movement to back away, and follow the path he had taken back to the feeding post, in hopes of encouraging the creature there, but at the tiniest movement of his foot back across the path, the creature jolted in a threat and he froze beneath its glare.

They stared at one another for some time more, Castiel unable to make out its face in the darkness or its intentions, and unable to formulate a plan for escape that did not aggravate the creature and provoke a confrontation where it was unnecessary. The creature made that decision for him, by standing up straight on its back legs and spreading its wings. It did not make to move towards him, as he thought for a moment, causing him to draw his weapon, but instead opened its mouth in a howling screech that shook the roots of the trees around them and caused Castiel to stumble backwards slightly.

The weapon was enough to provoke the animal, and a second later it was upon him, mouth open and foul breath stinking as it clapped its jaws at him, promising him that he would be crushed beneath them should he find himself too close. He thrust out with his blade, by the creature rolled away, and used its claws to swipe at the offending arm. The grab made its mark and Castiel fought back a yell as the skin tore beneath his fur and blood rushed from the wound. He quickly moved the blade to his other hand, the first now ineffectual with the pain of the wound, and quickly thrust again, this time managing to stake one of the creature’s wings and causing it to fall back. It was the only opportunity he had to make his escape, and he did so at a run, using his wings to propel himself forward to the sanctuary of the cottage. The creature writhed behind him in anger for a few moments, before correcting itself and turning to follow him, howling again, and this time provoking a responding chorus from somewhere deeper in the forest. Castiel stumbled slightly and the Angel managed to claw at one of his wings. The claws sunk deeper this time, and tore the skin at the tip in half. Deprived of the opportunity to hook itself into him by the delicate skin, the Angel fell behind for a moment, and Castiel managed to surge ahead slightly, gasping as the pain in the nerves of his wing caught up to his brain and at once sent a burn up the entirety of the wing and made it tremble uselessly.

The howls grew louder as he approached the cottage, and the Angel closed the distance between them once again. In a frantic dash, Castiel was able to make it inside the cottage, and drop a board across the doorway to buttress it before the creature made contact, ignoring the fake sigils designed as a distraction, and pounding on the wall in fury. He hurried to the kitchen and grabbed at a chair there, racing back and wedging it beneath the handle of the door. The Angelus pounded and scraped more furiously and the chair quivered beneath the strain of the force exerted upon it.

They waited out a stalemate for a minute as the Angelus struggled with the door, before it moved to the windows. They were small, designed in a way to prevent intrusion, and while the Angelus smashed its claws through the glass with ease, it was unable to breach the stone construction of the walls and returned to the door, howling in frustration. Castiel utilized the time to reach for more weapons, setting himself at the back wall of the cottage, and placing his blades beside him, arming himself with knives to throw and a bow. The sounds of other Angelus arriving in the clearing beyond his cottage, however, were enough to cause him to rethink that plan, and as a second pair of claws commenced pounding at his door, he stumbled over to his nest and wrenched a fur aside, revealing a small entrance to a cavern beneath the home. Dragging his weapons with him, he stuffed himself through, dragging on the damaged muscle of his wing, and half falling as he forgot the injury to his arm and tried to place weight on it. As he reached upwards to pull the door down above his head, a  third pair of claws joined the first two, and the door burst open.

He dropped the trap in time to avoid seeing the Angelus breach the sanctuary of his home, dragging a fur back across the door in the hope of covering it from their sights. A bolt was all that existed between him and the creatures, far less strong than the door at the entrance to his cottage, but he secured it quickly anyway and leaned back from the door, drawing his blade and holding it at the ready.

This cavern was designed for circumstances such as this – as a last resort, where his only hope would be to hide from the creatures, and where attempting to fight his way out was suicide. The space was small and cramped and equipped with rotting food supplies he hadn’t replaced in years, imagining (after so long undisturbed) he’d never be required to use them. In light of the fury that raged on the floorboards above him, he considered that such a lack of attendance might be his undoing.

Above him, the Angelus poured into the cottage, and tore at the walls and floor in an attempt to discern his whereabouts. He heard the shattering of his few cooking utensils as they raided the kitchen area, tearing things apart in their fury and thirst to get to him. The furniture followed as more seemed to appear enter the home, and he heard the crunch of splitting wood as they tore apart his table and chairs. There was a collective howl as they burst through into the cellar, to find him not there, which was quelled for a few minutes when they discovered his stock of remaining meat.

At first, Castiel hoped that might be the end of it – that they might be sated and leave the area, forgetting the scent of his fresh blood. And for a few minutes, when silence fell as they devoured his savings, he almost believed that to be the case. Until he heard the smell of a sharp intake of breath, and then the stuttered inhales that marked the fact that the creatures were scenting him. They prowled along the floor and the walls, attempting to discern where his scent was the strongest. That search led them to the nest easily, and they tore at his furs there, clearly enlivened by the concentrated scent of himself and Dean in the materials there. He pulled his wings around himself as tight as he could, in attempt to mask the sound of his heart pumping blood through his veins in terror and smother the smell of humanity still in his skin. It seemed enough to hide his scent sufficiently that they attributed it to the furs, for eventually they took to prowling the floor and the walls again, although their fury at having not found him manifested in boards being ripped up and rocks being torn at as they assaulted his home in anger.

It wasn’t until dawn that the party departed, whistling lightly to each other, and hacking out growls. He heard them chorusing at the feeding post, and then the sound of the group departing in flight – for the volume was so significant by that stage that the flap of their wings in unison was audible even from his home. Regardless, he waited until afternoon to leave his cavern, and only then in search of supplies to manage his wounds before he descended there carefully, trying to avoid looking at the destruction around him.

In the darkness of the cavern, he stitched together his torn skin without anesthetic, and bandaged the wounds with a few ragged shreds that he had left of bandages, the rest having been rendered useless by the claws and mouths of the Angelus. Blessedly, a small bottle of antiseptic had been spared the ruin, and he was able to purge the wounds of the worst of filth before closing them, before he lay back in the cavern, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to turn his mind to the warmth and exhilaration of Dean’s embrace as tremors began to take hold of his body, and his Grace began to throb urgently within him.

…

The mood of the City had changed when Dean returned. He knew it before even the Gates were opened. Above the ramparts, the archers were stony, and none responded to his wave of greeting as he approached the City. The Gates were slow to open, and when they were, the square was silent and empty, except for a few pale-faced boys who nodded to him as he dismounted and led Impala through into the square. He requested water for her, and one of the boys nodded and departed quickly, while the others shuffled awkwardly under his witness.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

They shook their heads and departed quietly as the other returned with a pail of water, and politely inquired whether Dean would need anything else. When he shook his head, that boy scarpered too, before Dean’s brain caught up with him to ask as to the whereabouts of Bobby, and why one of the boys had his circle of keys suspended from his belt.

The streets were silent as Dean lead Impala to the stables. Chuck was there, but he fended off Dean’s questions with a pleading look and insisted that he hurry to his brother’s chambers instead – Ruby had gone into early labor and his brother was waiting out the birth alone.

Sam was pacing in his chambers when Dean arrived, and he looked stricken when Dean appeared in the doorway, all but crumbling as his brother advanced forward and hugged him tightly.

“What’s happened? Has something gone wrong with the baby?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. Just early, that’s all. I haven’t heard anything for a little while. The cramps started this morning, but the midwife said everything was in order. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Dean stared at his brother for a moment before looking around the room. There was little different to account for Sam’s suddenly mild attitude and his pale expression, except for the strange kind of silence which seemed evident in the room. He moved back to the doorway, closing it, but poking his head out first and noting the total absence of any kind of presence or sound in the hallway at all.

He turned back curiously, looking at his brother, who had descended to a chair and had his head in his hands. Dean moved back to him quickly and dropped to his knees, reaching for his brother’s arm: “Hey Sammy, it’s alright. Babies come early all the time. It’s only a few weeks, nothing to be concerned about. You’re going to be a father really soon.”

Sam looked up sharply, eyes rimmed, not with red, but something that spoke to disaster, and there was a quiver in his lip.

“No one told you, on your way here?”

“Told me what?”

Sam gaped at him for a moment before swallowing and looking around desperately, as though someone else would take the mantle of whatever horror seemed to have stopped the City’s heart.

“The whole City has disappeared! When I got here, there were only a few kids at the Gates, and Chuck told me to come straight here.”

Sam’s forehead creased and his breathing quickened as he watched his brother, struggling to get words out as his face began to tremble.

“They’re… they’re at the Church.”

“What the whole City?”

Sam nodded incredulously, and fell backwards in his chair, shaking his head and shivering lightly. He reached a trembling hand to stroke at his beard, twisting at the skin as though he were angry at it, before dropping his hand and clenching it into a fist.

“The Empress and the Lord Protector… they’re dead.”

…

“What?!”

“Three nights ago. They both collapsed at the High Table during a banquet for the courtiers. I was there, on behalf of Ruby. Something they ate… it had been poisoned.”

Dean ceased breathing momentarily and stared at his brother. For a moment, he swore his heart stopped beating. “What?”

“They have someone in custody. This kid… he can’t be more than 10. They’re saying he did it. That he confessed.”

Dean fell backwards on his heels, until he was seated on the floor, shaking his head and bringing up a hand to cover his mouth, curled open in an expression of horror.

“I don’t understand.”

“We saw them fall. It was so quick. They started shaking and twitching. And then… their eyes turned black and they started frothing at the mouth. By the time the doctors appeared, they were already dead. No one else even got sick.”

“But… someone tastes their food, in the kitchen. Always. A maid told me.”

Sam nodded slowly, face paling.

“I know. They said it was fine. They had the cook and the taster arrested. They were set for execution before the kid came forward, saying he’d done it. The runner who delivered the food to their table.”

“ _Why_?”

Sam shook his head again.

“He says it was him, but it wasn’t. He couldn’t control it. And that he didn’t want to kill them. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t.”

Sam brought a hand to his mouth and stroked his thumb across his lips.

“When Ruby heard…Dean she’s devastated. She loved the Empress. And the Princess. She’s been sick for three days. And suddenly the baby is coming, the day of the funeral. We had to send for a midwife from the edge of the City – there aren’t any doctors in the Palace.”

Dean scrambled forward and clutched his brother’s shoulder. “It’s going to be alright, Sammy. Babies get born all the time, no problem. She’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sam leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I don’t even know anymore, Dean. I-“

There was a soft knock at the door and a moment later, a dark-haired, kind-looking woman poked her head through the door.

“Tessa?” Sam stood up at once and advanced urgently, “Ruby, is she..?”

Tessa smiled blandly, and nodded, reaching forward to support some of Sam’s weight as he fell forwards slightly in relief.

“She and your baby are both fine. A healthy little boy.” Her voice was soft, and very caring, but Sam barely seemed to register it as he nodded and fell against the wall, shaking slightly, and Dean stumbled forward to catch his brother as he began to fall backwards.

He looked to Tessa pleadingly, who seemed sympathetic, but unperturbed.

“Can we see them? I think my brother needs his wife.”

Tessa nodded again and threw a cautionary glance at Sam. “Of course, follow me.”

It took three attempts to pull Sam from the wall and help him stumble through the palace, up a flight of stairs to the one room which appeared to have any sign of life. Inside, a teenage girl wrung out a bloody towel in a dish of water, and a small gurgle was heard just beyond the doorframe. At the sound, Sam seemed enlivened at once, and he hurtled towards the doorway, pausing momentarily, and clinging to it desperately.

“Is he?”

Ruby’s voice cracked on the other side of the door, and Sam rushed to it immediately. “Oh, my love!”

By the time Dean made it to the door, Sam had rushed to Ruby’s bedside, and had her face in between both his hands. Their foreheads were pressed together tightly and Ruby was murmuring lightly against Sam’s lips as he nodded, pinching his own together.

In Ruby’s arms, attached firmly to her breast, was a small, wrinkled and bright red baby, eyes closed as he suckled on her lightly. He was a tiny thing, far smaller than Dean had pictured, and he seemed almost alien in his confused, weak movements.

Sam finished speaking with Ruby and looked to her arms, reaching forward lightly and running his thumb across his son’s cheek, before leaning back towards Ruby and kissing her on the lips, smoothing back sweaty tendrils of hair from her face.

Tessa cleared her throat, but the couple didn’t look to her, so instead she turned to Dean officiously. “He’s feeding, which is good. Some take a little while to go to the breast straight after birth. And he’s been looking around, so we know his head is working fine. He’ll go to sleep for a few hours after this, and it would be best to make sure Ruby rests. By that stage, the Palace healers should be back and they can take care of her.”

Dean nodded, although only vaguely comprehending the instructions, as he stared at the small human in Ruby’s arms.

“And Ruby is fine?”

Tessa nodded and crossed her arms in front of her. “She did very well, all circumstances considering.”

Dean nodded again and looked to Tessa, catching her sad smile as she watched them. “A sad day to be see one’s first of the world.”

“Tessa?”

Tessa looked over to see Ruby adjusting her grip around her son, who had withdrawn from her breast, and seemed to be falling asleep in her arms. Tessa moved forward and took the baby from her, cradling him against her chest for a moment before turning him to that his chin sat on her shoulder and rubbing his back lightly. Ruby smiled blearily at the child before her eyes started to droop closed and she leaned back against the pillows. Sam went to rouse her, but Tessa shook her head. “She’s fine, she just needs a few minutes of rest.”

Sam nodded and curled into the bed beside her, kissing her cheek as he watched the baby in Tessa’s arms. Tessa passed him the child soon after, and showed him how to hold him correctly. Sam performed the task admirably, and nodded to Dean to encourage him to sit beside him and rub the base of the child’s feet lightly. When tiredness overcame Sam momentarily, he passed the baby to Dean and allowed him to stroke the infant’s cheeks.

“He’s beautiful isn’t he? As beautiful as his mother.”

Dean smiled and nodded, adjusting his grip on the baby so that it curled into his chest. When Ruby woke, she looked around frantically for her child, before seeing him in Dean’s arms and relaxing visibly. She leaned across her, now sleeping, husband, and pressed a small kiss to the child’s forehead, but let Dean continue to hold him for a little while longer, until she asked with a polite smile whether she could have her baby back, and Dean had to stifle laughter to prevent waking the child, before passing him back to his mother’s arms.

Tessa stayed, monitoring the baby, until the Palace’s healers arrived, at which time they shooed her and Dean from the room unceremoniously, removing the baby for bathing and feeding by one of the Palace’s wet nurses. Ruby seemed slightly perturbed by the latter, but a sharp word from the healers had her biting her tongue and Sam wrapping an arm around her to silence her and murmuring in her ear.

Tessa walked with Dean back to his cottage, en route to her own, she said, and quelled his nerves with some well-placed advice regarding child-rearing on the way: “it’s always terrifying the first time, but you will be a wonderful uncle”, before continuing on her path. Back at the cottage, Dean found himself in an empty room, situated in a silent city, a little unsure as to how he found himself in that circumstance, and utterly directionless in what to do in a world so changed.

Eventually he decided on eating a little and sleeping, washing only briefly before tumbling into bed and smothering his face in his pillow. He had only a little time, before sleep consumed him, in which to think of Cas, and the prospect of his elation at Sam’s son having been born healthy and well.

…

** 2013 **

Greg failed to answer further phone calls the next day, or the next, although it seemed that Jessica made some kind of contact, for, from her room, the sound of an aggravated lecture occurred once or twice a day. Sam explained she was leaving “messages” for Greg, which he would hear at some other point, if he chose, and could listen to without alerting Jessica.

Jessica returned on both occasions looking irritated and prickly, and even in her attempts to control herself in their presence, her rising anger and simultaneous concern as to Greg’s whereabouts became more evident.

Castiel chose not to inform her that Greg had been in contact with Bobby, although he suspected she knew, given that the way she pronounced “Mike” on recent occasions spoke to some sense of betrayal. Despite her aggravation, however, she, and the rest of the group, refrained from discussing the subject of Greg with Castiel directly, and grew awkward around him when his name did emerge in conversation.

It wasn’t until the third day, when Castiel addressed the matter directly, that they conceded his existence at all, when he politely requested Sam: “Keith, may I use your phone please?”

Sam explained the mechanism of leaving a message well enough, and put the phone on “speaker” to guide Castiel through the process. As anticipated, Greg did not “pick up”, as Sam put it, although Castiel was momentarily confused when he heard Greg’s voice emerge through the speaker so that all of the room could hear it, requesting that they “leave a message, or whatever”. Castiel swallowed nervously at the tone which Sam had explained would signal his opportunity to speak, and stuttered as he attempted the words that he had rehearsed so thoroughly.

“Greg. It is Castiel speaking… I am… I am sorry for the way in which I offended you at our last meeting… I hope that… I would appreciate it if you would return to….I have missed speaking with you. Please…if you are willing, return to this motel. I have… I have watched some more of the films which your sister recommended, and I found them greatly entertaining. I… Thank you, for…” he trailed off and allowed Sam to take the phone from him and end the discussion.

When the rest of the group had departed the room, Jess slid closer to Castiel on the couch and took his hand. “You ok, Cas?”

He nodded slightly, but said nothing.

“You and Greg, I know you’re friends, but-“

She stopped as Castiel leaned forward suddenly, snatching his hand from hers and pressing his palms to his temples and grimacing. For a second, a momentary flash, he heard the ring of voices, thousands upon thousands, echoing in a space filled with millions of unfamiliar voices that Castiel was not yet acquainted with. There were rings and trills that Castiel did not know, but beneath that, in the snippet he was treated to, he heard a sound that he had not even imagined for hundreds of years – a hymn, a chorus: “Praise be to God on high”, before the sound cut out sharply.

“Cas, what-“

Castiel silenced Jessica, holding up one hand as he attempted to reach for his Grace again, and force it to retain its attention to the heavenly chorus that he had just witnessed. For a moment, when he located it, he felt it hot and active, pulsing with vibrant energy, but upon his touch it recoiled and fossilized again, freezing in its action and remaining immovable.

He leaned backwards breathing in heavily, calming himself as he attempted to stroke it back to activity, but when it refused to respond, he gently withdrew and calmly opened his eyes to where Jessica, and now Sam and Bobby were watching him with concern.

“Cas, you ok?”

“Yes, I-“

He stopped as he saw the way they stared at his face, and then his shoulders, with a mixture of horror and incomprehension.

“Oh my God, Cas.” Jessica gaped as she withdrew from him slowly, eyes slightly uncertain as she looked from him to Sam urgently.

“What is it?”

“Your face, it’s…”

Sam leaned forward and grabbed Castiel’s arm lightly, leading him to the bathroom and depositing him in front of the mirror silently. Castiel leaned forward as he stared at himself, confused for a moment as to what he was meant to be seeing, until it struck him that the fact he looked familiar was unfamiliar. The scars and disfigurement on his face were gone, and it was as it had been hundreds of years ago.

His fingers scrambled hastily to unbutton his shirt, and pulled it open to reveal fresh, pink skin, where there had been a cruel cross-hatching of scars. Jessica gasped behind him, and accidentally bumped into one of his wings as she stumbled. The thought had him pulling his wings forward and checking for deadened, ruined feathers,  but instead he found only rich, thick plumage, of better quality than he ever remembered since he fell to Earth.

“Cas, what happened? Did you…?”

Jessica’s voice trailed off uncertainly as she attempted to find the words to express her confusion, as Castiel turned to look at her, voice swelling with elation and promise.

“I think it may be, Jessica, that my Grace is returning.”

 


	22. Alone

** CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE **

** 2013 **

Castiel’s Grace returned twice more over the course of the next day. Neither time was he able to consciously summon it, or retain a hold of it when it did appear. But it made changes, nonetheless. The first time, it removed his wings from human vision, which caused Jessica to scream in horror and burst into tears, until he was able to reassure her, through her hiccups, that he had not been harmed and was returning to his natural state of being. The second time, he accidentally teleported to the kitchen instead of walking there, and Jessica threw a tea towel at him in anger once her fright subsided. He spent an afternoon with Sam by his side attempting to teleport there again deliberately after that, but with no success, although the effort left him feeling thoroughly drained. That in itself, was not a cause for alarm, since it was an entirely different feeling from that he had been accustomed to in the days after the Fall. It was tiredness, certainly, but tiredness that compelled sleep, as though it promised recovery rather than ruin.

As a result, he was excused from his storytelling duties, and he passed the day watching more of Greg’s films, while Bobby did some work, and Sam and Jessica went out “for lunch”. Castiel was alone in the room when there was a knock at the door, and assuming that it was one of the party returned, he paused the film and opened it. He froze when, on the other side, he saw Greg. Upon their eyes meeting, Greg’s entire expression reformulated itself, from one expression of panic to another, and he barreled into the room without waiting to see if Castiel would acquiesce.

“Shit, Cas, are you alright?”

Before Castiel had the opportunity to answer, Greg had seized him by the shoulders and turned him so he was facing to the wall, while Greg’s hands searched frantically for a bulk that had obviously disappeared.

“Cas, what the hell is happening?”

Castiel turned slowly, and witnessed Greg’s eyebrows raise as he properly took in Castiel’s healed face and a flash of confusion pass behind the film of his eyes. “There is no cause for concern.”

“What the fuck Cas, Jess called me and said your wings disappeared! What’s going on?”

Castiel paused at the sudden explanation for Greg’s presence, and momentarily regretted the fact that it had been a visit of anxiety, rather than generalized apology. Still, after his absence, it was a comfort to see him, and know that he was still in the vicinity, and not “halfway to Kansas”, as Jessica had speculated.

“My Grace is returning. It removed the physical manifestation of my wings.”

Greg’s brow furrowed as his mouth dropped open, and his teeth bared in an expression of indignant and terrified confusion.

“They’re not gone?”

“They exist on a different plane now, as they did before I fell.” Castiel rotated his shoulders a few times, in order to demonstrate the absence of any physical pain accompanying his symptom. “I am quite relieved, as they were heavy. The loss has been a blessing.”

Greg paused for a moment, before an unwilling smile of respite spread across his face. It twitched under Castiel’s recognition and disappeared immediately, Castiel regretting its loss almost instantaneously. Greg caught the change of Castiel’s expression and arched an eyebrow in inquisition.

 “I s’pose Jess knows you’re fine.”

“Of course.”

Greg hung his head and colored a little, before looking up at Castiel and running his hand across the bristles of his hair in mild aggravation. Castiel’s eye was caught for a moment by a small movement there, which he squinted at, before Greg quickly dropped his arm and moved it self-consciously behind his back.

“Guess this was her way of getting me back here.”

Their eyes met for a moment before a muscle in Greg’s jaw twitched and he raised his hand to thumb at the edge of his mouth nervously..

“We have been worried about you Greg.”

Greg’s mouth opened momentarily, but whatever attempt at speech he had intended was aborted, and he pressed his lips closed, tight, so that they turned white at the inside edges. Castiel shuffled nervously on his feet, torn between moving away or nearer to Greg to release the tension of their statuesque positions, and remaining there to preserve the tentative moment that could so easily be disestablished by Greg leaving again abruptly.

“If I... caused offence to you, in any way, I do apologize. I didn’t mean to. And I have regretted your absence.”

Greg’s upper lip twitched in the direction of his nose, and his body stiffened at the small betrayal in his expression. Castiel ignored the change in favor of meeting his gaze evenly. The silence allowed Greg time to dispel whatever worry had arisen, and eventually he shifted on his feet, taking his free hand from behind his back and digging it into his pocket. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I said you hadn’t, huh?”

Castiel squinted at him momentarily and Greg colored and looked to his feet, murmuring:

 “I can’t really explain. But... I’m sorry.”

Castiel nodded his acceptance, but Greg had failed to look up, instead surveying the room across the ground, awkwardly planting his hands in his pockets and rubbing his lips together. Eventually, in the heavy silence, Greg’s eyes shifted to the table upon which Castiel had left Sam’s laptop and the rumpled blanket there.

 “You said you’d been watching some of the movies?”

“Yes.” Castiel turned slowly and followed Dean’s gaze to the laptop, before advancing and turning it around for his benefit and indicating to a man wearing a ruff and a top hat: “Jessica provided me with this one, after I finished yours. It is called ‘Pride and Prejudice’.”

Greg blinked twice, before collapsing into a snicker and ambling over to the laptop nervously, rolling his eyes and muttering: “typical”. They both stared at the image for a few moments before Dean leaned forward slightly onto his toes and asked embarrassedly “we watching?”

Castiel nodded mutely and sat down on the couch, looking up to Greg, who shifted for a few moments before sitting beside him, being careful to ensure that their knees didn’t brush as they sat down. When Castiel leaned forward to start the film, he felt Greg’s eyes on him and turned to find Greg watching him unabashedly – a mixture of curiosity, and a somehow fonder looking emotion that Castiel couldn’t quite place. Quietly, unwilling to disturb Greg’s complacency, he murmured: “what?”

Greg didn’t bother to look away, although he shrugged as though the answer were little more than a comment on the weather: “just... weird to see you... like this. You look different.”

When Castiel turned to look at him, he shrugged again and smiled embarrassedly, before reaching forward and tapping the laptop to start playing the film. A flicker of movement at his wrist drew Castiel’s eye, and he was rewarded when he made out its source.

Greg caught the change of direction of his gaze, and noted that Castiel was watching his wrist carefully.

“Oh... yeah.” He tapped the laptop again to pause the film. He raised his wrist for a moment, fingering the twine there, before extending it for Castiel to view. “I hope you don’t mind. The leather was destroyed. I kept it, but I rethreaded it so that...um”. Castiel, careful not to make contact with Greg’s skin, reached forward and fingered the amulet where it hung from the base of his wrist, carefully polished but still marred with age and its rank storage. He twisted it lightly on the twine a few times before letting it drop and looking back up to Greg.

“Are amulets customarily worn around the wrist now?”

Greg grinned and withdrew his wrist, drawing his sleeve back down to cover the twine. “No, uh... I just... I have this thing about stuff round my neck. I don’t know. Guys don’t wear necklaces much now unless they’re douchebags. So... yeah.”

He avoided the fact that the words offered little explanation to Castiel, instead leaning forward and tapping the laptop once, recommencing the film. They sat in silence until the first part of the film ended, with Darcy proposing to Elizabeth, and her rejecting him, and Greg sat back, staring at Castiel.

“I hear you kept going with the story while I wasn’t here.”

“Does that offend you?”

Greg thought for a moment, and seemed to reconsider an answer. “No, uh... no. But Mike’s a piss poor storyteller.”

Castiel chuckled, uncertain of the wording of the phrase but clear as to its sentiment. “I see.”

Greg paused for a minute before looking at Castiel carefully. “That kid... was he really responsible for killing the King and Queen?”

“Lord Protector,” Castiel corrected softly, before sighing and settling back against the couch, finding it still strange to do so in the absence of his wings’ bulk, “they died by his hand, but it was not his intention. He never meant to hurt them.”

“How-“

“There is much of the story still to explain, Greg. I cannot answer that question yet.”

“Oh.” Greg nodded and looked away from Castiel, moving one hand to fiddle with a loose thread on his breeches.

“I could continue, if you wish.”

Greg looked up hopefully, but at once he smothered the expression, and looked around the room guiltily. “Aw, but Jess and Keith aren’t here. They’d be devastated.”

“I can repeat the story to them tonight.” Castiel answered matter-of-factly, but he didn’t miss the fact that Greg seemed elated by the promise of a private audience, even though he sat back, arms crossed (amulet falling out of his shirt sleeve and watching Castiel), saying nonchalantly “alright, I mean, if you want.”

Castiel smiled lightly, and looked away. But when he commenced speaking, he felt Greg’s gaze on him, and it wasn’t long before his eyes were drawn back to his and they stayed rooted there for the duration.

...

** 1425 **

Following the funeral, the City barely restored itself over the course of the next day. The area was still silent, and citizens passed through the city morosely, in small huddled groups, some with red-rimmed or terrified eyes, and others watched the skies warily in a way they never had before.

As far as he was from the Palace, Dean was left in the dark about any kind of re-establishment of the City’s operation following catastrophe. Even in the afternoon, when the funeral was long over, he seemed to still be isolated on the periphery of the city, for none of its activity re-established itself. The square in the morning was empty, and when Dean appeared to training, unsure of the proper protocol at a time such as that which they faced, he found a confused looking Garth and two other boys waiting. The rest were nowhere to be found.

He and Garth dismissed the boys to spend time with their families and friends for the morning, and made their way to the Brown Bear. Jo, Garth said, had barely been separated from the Princess’ side since the news had broken, and it was only the night previously she had made it to their shared chambers at all.

Lilith, she had reported, was inconsolable, and would not rest until the trial of her parents’ murderer. Garth did not know of the runner that had been in custody, and hadn’t even been in Court the night of the murder.

“There was no evidence,” Garth said, “apart from the poison in their food. The taster, the cook and the runner are all imprisoned and ready for trial. But there’s no motivation as far as anyone can tell.”

The obvious conclusion was that the parties had been paid, but there was no discernible motivation for any courtier to do such a thing. And, Garth added, all parties concerned had been as horrified as the other by the procedure of the events, and facing execution, none had alluded to another person’s involvement.

“The kid, they said he was shaking as he put the food on their plates. And the moment they had eaten, he started screaming.”

Azazel, Lydia’s husband, was to be the judiciary for the case, which was set for occurring in two weeks. Lydia, Garth said, had not been invited to console with the Princess and had been left by her husband for the past few days in their chambers. Even in the circumstances, Jo had reported, it hadn’t stopped the Palace’s whispers. Garth eyed Dean meaningfully as he said that, but Dean only shook his head and whispered: “she already told me, it’s not mine.”

Garth swallowed and watched him for a moment more before he looked away, but didn’t push the subject further. They spent the day at the Brown Bear, talking with Ellen. Its interior was empty, which Ellen said would have been the case, even if she had left the door open for customers. “The air is rotten, and people are scared.” The empty silence of the room made Dean inclined to agree. When he returned to his cottage in the evening, he found an envelope nailed to the door and addressed to him, which summoned him as a member of the jury to the trial of the “imprisoned.” Balthazar passed by in the evening, armed with one of his own, and nodded when he saw Dean’s letter unfurled on the table. “You’ll be there?”

Dean nodded grimly, and Balthazar left almost silently, only noting that he had to be excused to carry out his final trip of the season on the Road – for a northern City was in desperate need of extra winter supplies following an outbreak of illness in the City. He was calm as he said it, but Dean noted a slight stammer in the movement of his hands as he attempted reached out for the door handle.

The City seemed suspended for days on end, and any thought of his promised visit to Castiel was nullified in light of the empty streets and the increased security on the walls. Bobby was back at his post, but Dean doubted even he would have the pull to open the Gates in any other circumstance except the return of Alastair to the City – apparently he and his men were still on the Road and entirely unaware of what had befallen the kingdom.

Dean trained in the morning with Garth, though none other appeared, and Dean supposed he couldn’t blame his men. Even barring the misery of the City, the men were entitled to rest and respite, and were no doubt haunted by the prospect of their own family’s mortality too strongly to be separated from them.

In the afternoons he visited his nephew, his sister-in-law, and his brother, who were all fairly subdued. Ruby’s solely animated point was when the wet nurse came to take Samuel John –as they had decided was appropriate to commemorate their fallen ruler – for feeding. As the woman left the room, already adjusting her shirt for feeding, Ruby snapped that she hardly saw the need for the Palace’s assistance with raising her own child. She let the women depart though, turning to Dean and muttering angrily that the wet nurse was a gift from Lilith upon the birth of their son, and in the current circumstance (or perhaps even in the correct one) she felt it wouldn’t be right to refuse it.

Sam shushed her at the sound of rustling in the next room, but she glowered at him and crossed her arms angrily across her chest before wincing at the tenderness there.

“He’s my son. And I wish to be his mother. Not some floozy that abandons him for court performance.”

Dean scarcely suppressed his shocked expression, at least, until Ruby arched her eyebrow in challenge when she caught his look. “I suppose you thought I would, didn’t you Dean?”

Dean couldn’t hide the blush that arose at the accuracy of her statement, and Sam dropped his arm to Ruby’s shoulder to quell her aggravation. The touch had the desired effect, and within a few moments she was breathing out carefully, and shuffling forward across her bed, murmuring: “I’m so sorry, Dean, please forgive me.”

When Dean looked up in embarrassment, Ruby was blushing too, and seemed genuinely affronted at her barb: “it’s just that since he was born, the Palace has been sending its attendants for everything. And they keep suggesting that I hurry back to the Princess. It’s not that I don’t support her, but... Samuel is my _son_. I just want to spend time with him, as his mother.”

She hung her head, winding a tendril of hair back behind her ear as she murmured: “my own mother had so little time for me, I would not wish the same for him. I just want he and I, and his father to be together as a family. And you, of course, Dean. You’re his family too.”

The earnestness of the words stuck with Dean, and even though Ruby and Sam carried on their conversation in the face of his awed silence, he managed to stammer out, a few minutes later (after their talk had turned to Lydia, of all people): “If you need somewhere to stay, I mean, to spend some time with little Sammy...” Ruby turned to him, eyes curious, “you’re both welcome in the cottage. Whenever you want. To play, or sleep, or... “ he tailed off embarrassedly, unsure of how most appropriately to phrase the words _breastfeed him_ to his sister-in-law, with whom he had only so recently bonded.

Ruby was scarcely affronted by his lack of capacity, however, and flung herself across the bed to wrap her arms around him tightly. “Thank you, Dean. Thank you!”

A day later, she took him up on his offer, and when Dean returned from his morning training, he found Ruby seated in his sitting room, son at her breast, looking blissfully contented and relaxed.

She grinned when Dean stepped inside, although she hastened to cover up her exposed breast with a small silk slung across her shoulder. Her son jostled beneath it, but seemed happily fixated on his meal enough to continue uninhibited. Dean blushed and went to wash himself from sweat, and by the time he returned, he found the child asleep in Ruby’s arms and her watching him elatedly.

“He looks so much like Sam already, doesn’t he?” she cooed, over the infant. When she looked up her eyes were brimming a little, and her smile seemed fit to burst off her face. “Even a little like you, Dean. In the eyes, don’t you think?”

Dean wasn’t certain of the resemblance himself, but the sentiment was kind enough that he was willing to accept it with a small smile. They stayed companionably in the cottage for the afternoon, and Ruby and her baby fell asleep in Sam’s old bed in the early evening. Sam walked down in the evening to retrieve her, but at the sight of Ruby curled up with her infant, he conceded to his tiredness and ended up sliding into bed with her there.

When they were asleep, Dean made his way back to his bedroom and curled into the sheets, and let his thoughts drift to Cas and the astounding feeling of his bare skin beneath Dean’s hands shining with sweat, invisible beneath the dark ceiling of the forest. While the memory of Castiel’s harried breaths, and his murmurings into Dean’s neck were enough to stir heat in his stomach, the beginnings of arousal slowly turned to fondness as sleep took hold of Dean’s limbs, and he imagined Castiel wound around him, as Sam had been around Ruby, in this bed, in the safe confines of the city and blissful normalcy.

...

On the sixth morning of his training, a small uniformed runner appeared in the training arena and handed Garth and Dean their own individually addressed scrolls, decorated by the royal emblem. They opened them together, assuming them to be regarding their jury positions for the trial, but instead were both surprised to read their invitation for private audience with the Princess. Garth was obliged within a matter of hours, and so hurried back to the Palace to change and consult Jo as to the appropriate costuming for such a private meeting. Dean, however, was scheduled for a late afternoon visit, so carried out his exercises leisurely before heading back to his cottage.

Ruby was still there with her son, although Sam had returned to the palace, and she giggled as she said that the Palace attendants had been looking for her over the course of the day, but that her staying in the cottage had eluded them. When Dean explained his summoning, however, she raided his paltry stores of clothing until she found something she considered suitable, and smoothed it down across his chest when he was finished changing, before rushing her hands through his hair with some water without any request for permission.

When she was done, she stepped back, admiring her work. “You look very handsome, Dean.”

Dean raised an eyebrow as she bustled back to Sam’s bedroom, poking her head through the door to check on her sleeping son. When she turned, she met his gaze quizzically, with an abrupt: “what?”

Dean shrugged and adjusted his shirt slightly, but stopped when Ruby narrowed her eyes. “Why do I have to get dressed up for the Princess?”

Ruby rolled her eyes playfully, and reached forward to readjust his shirt to where she had positioned it earlier. “It’s a mark of respect, and this could be an important meeting. Behave yourself.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Samuel stirred in the bedroom and she at once raced back to him. He cried for maybe a minute or more before Ruby managed to silence him with her breast. Dean shuffled awkwardly in the kitchen until she called out through the closed door “good luck, Dean”.

Dean made the trek back to the Palace through empty streets, passing boarded windows and shuttered curtains. Even the square was empty in the late afternoon, usually a site of happy trading and public meetings, as he walked through it, feeling strangely apart from the area in its eerie silence.

The Palace was the same, although a few courtiers shuffled quietly through its halls, murmuring to each other and staring Dean down as he walked past them. The throne room was guarded by the usual suspects, including the guard that had been strangely rude to Dean upon his first re-arrival to the City. The guard was ramrod straight this time, and scarcely acknowledged Dean, except to participate in the arduous opening of the massive doors.

The walk down the centre of the throne room was longer this time, for the room seemed so much emptier and larger with only one figure at its head. The three thrones were still seated at its centre, but only the Empress’ remained visible, for the two on either side were covered by massive swathes of black velvet. Their shape was unfamiliar though, for from either side of the centre throne were two massive horizontal shapes, spreading across the entire width of the throne platform, almost obscuring the chairs behind them.

Lilith sat at the throne’s centre, in the black of mourning, a massive black veil extending from the crown of her head and spread out down the stairs leading to the platform in front of her..

She rose as he approached, and for a moment Dean blanched as he saw the shape of the throne move with her, until he realized that the shapes protruding from the throne were not affixed to its structure at all, but instead to Lilith, who descended the platform’s stairs and met him at their base, with a small curtsey.

Dean bowed low, and carefully, so that his knees were almost touching the ground and his head almost hung against his chest. When he rose, Lilith stood directly before him, eyes wide and staring from beneath her veil. But Dean’s eyes were not caught by their glassy shimmer, or the curled expression of grief that saturated her face, for the huge black wings that extended either side of her shoulders, draped artfully so that the tips of their feathers just grazed the ground beside her.

Dean had seen wings worn as ornaments before. The Empress Eve had worn a pair for occasions of celebration, and no doubt would have worn them upon the coronation of her daughter, not due for another two years. But he had always seen the artifacts from a distance, and they were scarcely employed. And it had been years since Eve had worn them – the last occasion had been before Dean had left for the Road the first time, and before he had ever seen them animated with the force of life.

His eyes ran down the bones that supported the positioning of the wings, clearly nailed at the joints to ensure their artful positioning, and supported, so that she did not overbalance. Her eyes followed his, and when he looked back to her face, she gave him a cold smile. “I forget you have been away, Slayer, and you have not yet seen them.” Dean watched as she jostled slightly and the wings bounced with her. The movement was so oddly dead, and stiff, in a way that made them seem alien to those Dean had seen. But there was just enough familiarity in them to make Dean’s stomach coil, as he thought of the magnificent way Castiel’s wings shivered and twitched and curled in on themselves when Dean ran his hands across his body.

Dean swallowed carefully and looked away from the wings, attempting to ignore the way they squeaked with the exertion of being held up without the force of muscle, every time Lilith adjusted minutely.

 “I have seen them before, my Princess. On your mother, may God rest her soul.”

Lilith nodded her head in thanks, before tilting her head at Dean and smiling forlornly. “You are incorrect, Slayer. The wings you speak of lie with my mother in the tombs.”

Dean froze in his position at Lilith’s words, except for dropping his gaze to the ground before him and frantically searching it as thought it might dispute the conclusion forming in his mind, which was buttressed by Lilith’s words when she said: “these were awarded to me, by the Slayer, Alastair. They were a gift, from a creature he felled in the forest.”

Dean’s knees weakened slightly as his mind made the connection against his will. Unbidden, the image of a head suspended from a broken branch, a shredded body, charred bones and absent wings bled into his mind and soaked in there. In the murky, terror-drenched images, the sharper figure of Castiel appeared, hunched atop a small mound of dirt marking the last of his living brothers, shivering fitfully.  

Dean sucked in a careful breath, but his body betrayed him with a slight jerk in his head that had Lilith’s eyes narrowing when he looked up to meet them. “Are you well, Slayer?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Lilith twisted her head before him, as though changing the angle of her gaze on Dean might reveal something else to the oddity of his behavior. But whatever she sought, she was not rewarded with, and eventually she settled for rolling her shoulders backwards once and straightening her neck.

 “Will you walk with me, Slayer?”

Dean nodded dumbly and stared at Lilith, who looked meaningfully at his arm until he extended it for her. She took it graciously, as though he had not been so rude as to forget the courtesy, and she took it, curling her hands around his forearm. She started forward almost immediately, and Dean stumbled a little as he was forced to move. While her gait was easy grace, his was a nervous shuffle, and in silence, as they walked around the room, he could hear her little breaths of displeasure and annoyance when he dragged her off balance once or twice. She lead them to the wall of the Great Hall first, and then around its vicinity, strolling past portraits of the Empresses and their husbands that had ruled Ardus before her, each frozen in a posture of supremity and an air of grandeur, side-by-side with their appointed Lord Protector, and in some instances, a separate husband.

 “I suppose the town whispers as to why you are here, Slayer.”

Dean swallowed quickly, whetting his throat and tongue, in order to stammer: “I have not heard, Princess.”

She smiled prettily, and leaned against him slightly, sending a huff of her perfume across his body and up his nostrils. “I think you do not listen closely enough, Slayer.”

Dean twitched a little at the sudden presence of her scent, but she ignored him, continuing forward and murmuring lightly: “But you must speculate as to why I have invited you here.”

Dean swallowed again, clearing his throat and pressing his lips together. She looked to him, eyebrows arching beneath her veil and inclined her head knowingly until he stuttered: “My sister-in-law, she... she helped me get ready. She seemed to think my coming here is important.”

Lilith trilled lightly, in a tone oddly bright for her somber attire: “Of course, my Ruby is such a bright one.” She looked at Dean, apparently expecting him to agree, but when he only stood in stunned silence. In response, she rolled her shoulders again once and said mildly: “Perhaps you might hazard a guess as to why you are here then?”

Dean’s mouth stuttered around several aborted attempts at an answer before, with an imperfectly concealed huff, she said: “You must know that I seek the City’s Protector. Now, tell me” she tightened her grip around his forearm and lead him forwards even though Dean’s feet began to drag as he properly comprehended her words: “what ought I to do?”

Dean stopped altogether, but Lilith pressed on with her careful walk, forcing him to follow with their locked elbows, as she stared at the paintings with vague interest, as though she had merely asked about the weather.

“You’re asking me?”

She tittered, as though this were a courtly flirtation, and not a conversation of leadership occurring directly above the tombs where her parents now lay, as she wore the wings of a corpse that had been left to rot in the forest. Dean cleared his throat anxiously again, swallowing as though he were forcing his heart back down his throat, for it seemed to beat there against his soft palate with aggravated earnestness.

“I...you must choose the strongest leader, my Princess.”

She shook her head at him lightly, smiling as though he had complimented her on her attire, or her scent. “And how am I to know of such things? You must educate me, Slayer?”

Dean paused and looked at her carefully. She shrugged under his clear gaze and looked back to the paintings they passed, surveying each quickly with her eyes the way she did her palace’s ladies when they flirted with members of the Court. Dean held his breath for a moment, before saying carefully: “The leader who will keep the City the safest. That will protect its citizens the best.”

Lilith nodded slowly, absorbing his words, as though they were not an obvious pronouncement. For a moment, Dean thought he had escaped the interrogation, but instead she leaned closer and whispered conspirationally: “Are you that leader, Slayer?”

Dean stared at her for a moment, willing an answer to form on his lips, but simultaneously feeling the echo of Castiel’s lips on his neck, murmuring that he was the most perfect example of his Father’s creation. Love in every syllable, however unpronounced.

Lilith’s head shifted to one side sharply as she watched him, as though she knew the sensation that crept across Dean’s skin, and she ceased their walking for a moment to turn to him. “You know, Slayer, my Father thought you were that leader.”

Dean paused in his steps too, eyebrows raised, and mouth falling open in surprise.

“I suppose you were not aware of that.” Lilith chuckled once, and moved forward to appraise a portrait of her ancestors, tracing her finger down the cheek of the Empress there.

“He spoke of your virtues often, above any other Slayer in the City. You were his favorite.”

She moved to the next picture and stared into it, holding her hands at her stomach and clasping them there prettily. She surveyed it only momentarily before turning back to him with a small smile. “He said you had the love of the people, and their respect, and more importantly he love of the men. He said that they trusted you most absolutely, and you cared for them the best.”

She inclined her head lightly as Dean pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“And he said you had the love of the Captains and the other Slayers too. That you inspired them. And that you inspired the City Watch. And the leaders in the other cities.”

She shook her head as she saw Dean’s disbelieving stare.

“They take a vote, you know. All those leaders. The City Watchman too. They sent the vote to my Father every year, in case he were to befall an accident and a new leader would need to be chosen. Every one, they voted for you, Slayer. You are beloved.”

She sashayed forward, looking behind for him to follow and took his arm as he approached. “The other Slayers speak highly of you, and your men were devastated when we thought you were lost. I was devastated.”

She squeezed his arm tightly and Dean leaned minutely away. She sensed the movement, looking up sharply, but kept the preen on her face as she rotated them to witness a portrait painted of her family, when she was but a young girl.

“They say you are a protector, Slayer. That you are careful, quiet and that you keep your men safe. That you keep them hidden and out of trouble. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Dean murmured, surprised by the lack of strength in his voice, as she turned to look at him again, “I keep them safe on the Road, as best I can.”

She nodded and stepped forward, caressing her mother’s face in the image with a surprising tenderness that Dean had not expected.

“But there is one that dissents, Dean.”

Lilith did not turn to look at him as she reached for her mother’s hand, and traced the outline of a ring painted there slowly.

“He promises me that this City can have a better life. One in which none are forced to die on the Road, and our citizens will not starve when we cannot import food, or die from disease when medicines cannot be salvaged from an attack.”’

Dean stayed silent when Lilith turned to him and advanced carefully.

“He says we can rid the forest of the creatures, and that he has already begun. And when they are eradicated, we can enjoy this kingdom beyond the boundaries of these walls. What do you say to that?”

Lilith advanced until her nose was mere inches from Dean’s and she tilted her face up to his in question, eyes searching, smile fixed beneath the veil that cast a dark shadow across the features beneath it, obscuring them further than they already obscured the meaning of her words.

Dean responded gruffly, nervously and with disbelief ridden in every part of his tone: “It is not possible.”

“Is it not? He has felled many before.”

Dean swallowed and stared down at Lilith, as she kept her gaze innocent, even as her words became sharp. He shook his head again, and bit his lip as he queried:

“How many?”

Lilith’s eyebrows raised, and she smiled him, seemingly exhilarated by her words as though she had performed the task herself.

“A dozen already. He and his squad of men have ventured into the forest, and annihilated the beasts that plague us. He protects us.”

Dean’s jaw clicked as he tightened it, and a muscle began to pulse there, aching for a release from the tight hold which he gave it. Gabriel. Others too. _Cas_. Not Cas. Not Cas.

“We cannot annihilate them all.”

Lilith raised her eyebrows and reached one gloved hand forward. Dean recoiled minutely but she persisted, placing it softly against his cheek and trailing it downwards. “Why not, Slayer?”

Dean swallowed around the protest _they cannot die!_ that threatened to erupt and he felt a blush creep across his cheeks with the effort of it, and the sudden urgency he felt in light of Lilith’s glassy, disbelieving stare. The proposition would be preposterous, he knew, to anyone, let alone Lilith, whose family had ruled the kingdom for generations without such knowledge. But it was imperative that its meaning was communicated – that the perils presented in the proposed approach be properly understood.

Dean’s lips smacked as he opened his mouth to answer.

“There are too many. And they are too vicious. We would lose hundreds of men. We already do, even when we avoid confrontation.”

Lilith shook her head lightly and brought her other hand to his face, smile widening as she proclaimed in a light and excited tone:

“They would be lost for a greater cause though, Slayer! Generations would be able to see the Road with no fear. We could travel again!”

Dean shook his head quickly, momentarily dislodging the touch of her hands at his cheeks. “They would destroy us first. They are too strong for men to overpower. They would tear us apart and eat us. Families would have no fathers or sons left. We cannot.”

Lilith squinted at him at Dean’s rising tone and shook her head again, pressing her palms against his cheeks and pressing as though she would squeeze the dissent form his brain. “But you have felled them Slayer. You have felled them.”

Dean stepped backwards away from her touch and reached to clutch at his thigh where the mark from the Angelus that had almost killed him still glowed, angry and red, beneath his breeches. Lilith dropped her gaze there, and stared as though she could see it.. “I felled one, my Princess, yet I was almost killed by another. If I am the strongest of the city, and I am that weak, how could any of our men hope otherwise? It’s suicide.”

Lilith leaned forward as though pleading with him, and clutched at his arm. “Would you deprive our citizens of the world beyond, and keep them here caged?”

“I would keep them safe!” Dean hissed, hard enough that a fleck of spit left his mouth and hit Lilith’s veil and she recoiled as though he had struck her, staggering backwards, mouth open.

Dean reached forward at once, palms outstretched in a gesture of deference: “Please, my Princess, I am so sorry.”

She backed away again, raising a hand to her veil and wiping away the touch of Dean’s spit there, before lowering her hand to her side and breathing carefully through her nose.

“You need not apologize, Slayer. I understand you believe differently than Alastair. And I cannot hope to pronounce what is right between you. I know my father favored your methods.”

Dean let out a trembling breath and reached forward again, although he restrained from stepping closer.

“I insist because I love our city, my Princess.”

She paused at that, eyes cast down and raised her gaze to his. Her eyebrow arched in question, and she stepped forward.

“Do you, Slayer?”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when Lilith continued forward towards him, eyes wide with question and suddenly enlivened by the turn of the conversation.

“Of-of course,” Dean stammered quickly, heart pounding as Lilith returned to her previous position in front of him and stared him down.

“How can I know that?”

“Princess?”

Lilith looked down at the ground before she raised her gaze to his, eyes narrowing slightly. “Forgive me, Slayer, but I need to know that, above all else, our city is beloved by you.”

Dean stayed silent as she watched him before her, her eyes tracing every flicker of expression in his face as he breathed in carefully through his mouth.

“What do you mean, Princess?”

“Dean.” She shook her head as though a great joke were being missed, “above all else, I must know that our Lord Protector is devoted to this City. That he would give up everything for it, and its citizens. That he would love this City with his life, and protect it, as my Father did. If he cannot, he cannot offer us the protection we need. Do you understand?”

Dean looked at the smile which spread across her face, so eerie in front of the somber picture of her deceased parents, and shook his head.

She smiled wider, and leaned closer, so that her lilac breath gusted across his lips, even through her veil.

“Dean, when it comes to it, I cannot hope to understand how best to protect my City. What I have to offer is my power, my magic, inherited from my mother. I have not the knowledge, nor the tenacity to lead.”

Her eyes descended almost sadly to the floor of the Hall at that.

“You and Alastair make fine cases, Dean. And I cannot hope to choose on your methods. So I must choose on something else.”

She raised her eyes to his again and jutted her chin forward as she breathed out softly through her veil, so that is pushed forward and brushed against Dean’s skin.

“My Father loved the City with every part of his being. And I admired that so. And to commemorate him, I would have the same. Do you understand?”

Dean shook his head more softly this time, but the movement was more a denial than a statement of his understanding, for Lilith’s grin had turned wolfish as she leaned closer, until her lips, through the veil, ghosted a path across his cheek, leaving the skin cold and frozen there – paralyzed against the bone.

She withdrew, head cast down and a blush in her cheeks, as though she were a maiden being made love to for the first time, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. But when her face rose, her eyes were calculating, and clear: “Alastair has offered me his love for the City. Can you offer that too, Dean?”

Dean stared at her in incredulity, until she nodded once and curtseyed. “My decision will be announced within the fortnight, Dean, on the day of the trial of my parents’ murderers. If you love our City as you say, you will come to me before then. I shall know, either way.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	23. For What Emerges

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

** 1425 **

Dean stumbled back to the cottage as though drunk, staggering diagonally through the streets, mercifully still empty  post the funeral, such that he was not made to look in a state of disrepair in the eyes of the common populace.

The lights were on when he arrived home, and when he pushed his way into the room, he was met with Ruby, child in her arms, looking embarrassed and somewhat harried, saying: “they all came here, Dean. I said you weren’t expecting anyone, but-“

She stepped backwards to reveal Balthazar, Garth and Jo, seated around Dean’s rickety dining table, staring at him emptily. Sam was in the kitchen, preparing some kind of tea for the group, although Balthazar already seemed equipped with something stronger, and the scent of it floated on his breath in the confined space of the room.

Dean’s brow furrowed as he appraised the group, and the tension that seemed to have them rooted in place around the table. Ruby seemed acutely aware of it too, and as Dean made his way further into the room, she hurried quickly across it back to Sam’s side and stayed rooted there, communicating with him via meaningful glances.

“What’s the occasion?” Dean mumbled feebly to Balthazar’s tough expression. Balthazar barely cracked a grin, but he did turn to look meaningfully at Sam and Ruby, both of whom received the gesture coolly.

Dean quirked a smile and looked up to them both, twisting his face into an expression of apology: “I’m so sorry, Ruby, I had forgot to tell you I had expected company tonight. A little... chat amongst colleagues, regarding our work next year.”

Garth corroborated the words with an enthusiastic nod and Jo smiled sweetly when Ruby looked to her, clearly unimpressed by the explanation.

“I... I should have mentioned it, with Sammy here. Well... I arranged it before I knew he would... I’m sorry, uh...”

Ruby took the hint well enough, as did Sam who nodded quickly and took the baby from Ruby’s arms. She pursed her lips for a moment and crossed her arms, staring at the table, before mumbling: “we ought to return to the palace anyway. I’m obliged to start back with Lilith tomorrow, and Samuel needs rest.”

She moved to the corner of the room to take her cloak and hang it around her shoulders before Sam handed their child back to her, who gurgled quietly but otherwise took the transfer well. They hurried quickly from the room, with Sam throwing Dean a meaningful glance as he exited the door, and Dean mouthing “ _later_ ” as it closed between them. He watched Ruby and Sam leave up the street, before turning, to witness the table watching him carefully from the centre of the room.

“What did she say?”

Balthazar’s question was short and abrupt, and in a voice quite unlike his usual joking tone. There was gravel there, and weariness, and a sense of defeat beneath that made itself evident in the soft sigh that followed the words.

Dean walked slowly to the table and sat down, at which both Garth and Jo leaned forward, shoulders pressed together and eyes wide.

“She... said she’s looking to make a decision on the Lord Protector, in two weeks.”

Balthazar and Garth exchanged a look, and Jo watched it with a quick eye wordlessly, before they looked back to Dean.

“And she wants you?” Balthazar’s eyes were hard and calculating as he stared at Dean and took in the hunched nature of his posture, and the obvious shock in his presence.

“She...I’m not sure.”

“Dean, what exactly did she say?”

Garth’s words were more careful, and more friendly than Balthazar’s, although an undercurrent of tension ran through them and Jo reached beside her to interlace her fingers with Garth’s and squeezed them.

“She said that... she said that her Father had wanted me, but... she said I have to prove my love for the City.”

Garth and Jo exchanged a glance then, and Balthazar looked up at Dean sharply, brow furrowing.

“What did she say about Alastair?”

Dean swallowed, and shook his head slightly, as his mind began to race and process the nature of their conversation, the information that had been revealed to him in the past hour, and the sudden growing sense that he was becoming an agent in a narrative far larger than himself.

“She said that he’d talked strategy with her. He wants annihilation. Hunting parties.... she liked that idea. And she said that he had offered her love of the City. That she would make her decision in two weeks, uh...”

Balthazar sighed out in a quick breath, and leaned forward across the table. He opened his mouth to speak but Dean spoke first, eyes racing between Garth, Balthazar and Jo, as he said suddenly and aggressively: “What the hell are you all doing here? What’s happening?”

Both Garth and Balthazar recoiled at the tone and exchanged a glance, but Jo leaned forward, voice calm, and extending her free hand to rest against Dean’s. “You saw the wings, didn’t you?”

Dean froze and nodded once. Jo’s eyes scanned his face carefully, before she pursed her lips once, and murmured: “What did you think of them?”

Dean looked down and searched the table once, eyes following the lines of the wood that ran across it, marking the tree’s age and composition that had been used for its construction.

“I...” he stumbled over the words as on the table a kind of shadow seemed to form of the scene in the forest, “I saw... in the forest... the body that they came from. The one that they killed for them..uh...”

He felt Balthazar stiffen beside him and didn’t look up.

“They’d mounted its head on a branch and... they’d burned it. The whole clearing was rank, it...”

Balthazar’s bottle flipped over onto the table and the remnants of his ale ran across it, forming rivulets and pooling on its uneven surface. Garth stood up quickly to fetch a rag to clean it and wiped it hurriedly, while Jo watched Dean carefully.

He looked to Balthazar, whose mouth twitched around an aborted sentence, before turning back and looking at the table carefully, until Garth finished with the rag and placed it to the side of the table, seating himself beside Jo and allowing her to lean against him.

“Dean, you know we can’t let that happen again.”

Dean looked up sharply to where the group watched him carefully eyebrows raised, and expectant. There was a little uncertainty as they appraised him, and he tensed under the investigation and scrutiny, eyes narrowing.

“Of course, I... of course I know that!”

Jo looked to Garth, who pursed his lips and shook his head, and then Balthazar, who did the same. Looking irritated, she turned back to Dean, pressing her lips together and reaching forward again, this time to take his hand in both of hers.

“Then you know what she’s asking you to do.”

Dean looked up and met Jo’s gaze and shook his head again, although the way her eyes softened suggested she knew what it meant, and it was not a negative answer to her question.

“Dean.”

“I can’t. I... I can’t, alright?”

“ _Dean-_ “

“No.”

The group fell silent and Jo’s hands tightened around his, even though he went stiff beneath them, warning her off. Slowly though, as she stroked her thumb across his knuckles, he deflated a little and was able to look back up at the group.

“There’s someone isn’t there?”

Dean had expected the words to come from Jo, and it took him a moment to discern the fact that it was a male voice speaking. Even then, he would have anticipated that Garth would have asked that question first. But when he looked up, Garth and Jo’s eyes were on Balthazar, who was watching him expectantly.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re in love with someone.”

Balthazar met his gaze, as though in challenge, and refused to look away when Dean stiffened beneath it.

“You don’t know-“

“Is it Lydia?”

Only Jo could have asked that question without making Dean’s blood boil, and it seemed she knew it when he turned to her, as she was stalwart in her expression, even though her cheeks were tinged pink.

Dean watched her for a moment before shaking his head lightly. Beside him, Balthazar shifted a little in his seat.

“No.”

“I thought so.” Jo leaned backwards a little, though her hands didn’t leave Dean’s. “But they’re right though, aren’t they? The whisperers who say there is someone?”

Dean pursed his lips and looked away, and refused to answer, but his silence was enough for his childhood friend to make sense of.

The group waited out his silence, and eventually Balthazar filled it with a direct address to Jo: “Does Lilith know? Has she heard?”

Jo ran her thumb across Dean’s knuckles again, and nodded. “I think so, but I’m not sure from who. Lydia and I have been denying it, but we don’t have her convinced. Lydia thinks it was Alastair who told her.”

“God damn him.”

Balthazar slammed his fist into the table. Jo jolted and stared at him angrily: “We’ve done what we could! And, in any case, even with Lydia, she prefers Dean. His disinterest this year fascinates her. Alastair has been too simpering. She’s bored.”

Dean spoke up, shaking his head: “I saw them on the roof together. She’s in love with him.”

Jo chuckled darkly and shook her head back: “She’s faking. To get you to notice, probably. They spend plenty of time together, and I’m sure she’d have him. But she wants the bigger prize. She wants the man that any woman would want. No one says that about Alastair.”

Balthazar snorted at that, with a malice that surprised Dean, although he didn’t note it.

Dean looked up, staring at Jo pleadingly, as though she might relieve him of the pressure: “I’m not a prize, Jo.”

She squeezed his hands tightly. “I know, Dean. I-“

Garth spoke up then, reaching forward and clutching Dean on the shoulder. “Dean, we’ve been working on this every day since the funeral. Jo ever since Lilith appointed her. Lydia, even longer. We’ve been trying to suggest that she keep the roles separate and appoint the Lord Protector separately from her husband. But she’s too traditional. She won’t budge.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and shook his head, although the others seem blind to the gesture.

“We... it seemed like you wanted it. Until recently, no one was worried. But then, you started disappearing from the City, and we’ve all seen it...”

“That’s nobody’s concern.”

“It’s everybody’s concern, Dean!” Balthazar didn’t contain his frustration as he leaned forward across the table.

He shook his head in incredulity and buried it in his hands. “You understand how the Road works. You know better than either of us, even. And you know what Alastair wants to do. And why that can’t happen.”

He looked up and met Dean’s eyes meaningfully. “They will destroy everything in their path, Dean. _Everything_.” He placed a heavy emphasis on those last words, as though he meant more, but Dean barely discerned the meaning before Garth spoke again.

“It’s building, Dean. You know it is. You can smell it out there, and you can hear them at night. They’re getting angry, and they’ll fight back. We won’t stand a chance.”

Balthazar leaned forward, voice lowering and eyes desperate: “Dean, our soliders are _children_. You know that. They want their homes and their mothers and half haven’t even had a girl in their bed yet. They cry in the forest and they piss themselves. We can’t fight with them. They’ll all die.”

The last word hung in the air, and in the silence, it seemed that the echoes of the screams of Dean’s men as they were annihilated and their carriage burned were riding on the air in the room around them.

“Balthazar... I... Either of you, why can’t you-“

“Dean, you know it’s you or him. Garth’s out of the running, and I was never a strong contender. You have to understand, we never knew that it would come to this.”

Their eyes met across the table, and Balthazar’s gaze softened a little, as he explained calmly.

“We always thought... I always hoped it would be you. We all did. Bobby’s been grooming you since your first day in the squad. We thought you wanted it to – never taking a wife, never settling, carrying on with...” Balthazar stopped and cleared his throat, taking a quick drink of ale. “But when we saw you losing interest, and leaving the City. We none of us worried. Because we thought there’d be time for another boy to join the ranks, or that you’d come around. Even if you hadn’t, we thought that Alastair... he wasn’t ideal, but... we didn’t know.”

Garth shook his head solemnly and looked down at the table.

“And then you disappeared and Alastair... Dean, it was him. I swear to you. You know that that attack wasn’t an accident.”

Dean looked up sharply, and the echoes of the screams in his ears grew louder, and every time his heart pumped with a sudden burst of adrenaline, it seemed to send them searing through his body, terrorizing every cell so it began to throb.

“Dean, Garth was _there_. He came back and told me everything. It was _him_. Alastair planted her. He tried to kill you.”

“No.”

Garth leaned forward and clutched Dean’s arm tightly, eyes desperate: “Yes. Dean, he did.”

Balthazar leaned back and took a deep breath, which shook on the exhale.

“The game was afoot as soon as you didn’t come back, Dean. It was set before Lilith came to you in the square. He must have heard that she was interested. One of the ladies.”

“Bela.” Jo said, matter-of-factly, and narrowed her eyes.

“We couldn’t believe it though, Dean. We were too caught up in the tragedy, the loss of a friend. We were all foolish.”

Garth hung his head and Jo leaned over and kissed his cheek softly. He leaned into it, but his eyes shimmered too and he looked away, brushing at them quickly.

“He was so quiet when we thought you were dead. You were his only competition, really. Even if Garth hadn’t married Jo, he wouldn’t have had a chance. And we thought... we thought, certainly he may be more confrontational, but he was a good soldier. And a good leader.”

Balthazar’s spine gave a shiver and he sat forward in his chair.

“But when you came back, Lilith was hooked again. And he was angry. Ellen had to bar him from the Brown Bear. He’d come in, drink, and...”

He shook his head.

“Your little game of cat and mouse, running off into the forest, Dean. It’s got her going. And now she wants _you_. That’s it. That’s it for her.”

Jo pursed her lips and clutched tightly at Dean again, and his hands went limp beneath hers.

“Alastair. Look, I don’t understand his motivation, Dean. Whether he thinks he’s doing good or not. But we know he’s not. And to give him that kind of control, and let him train the young ones. You know that... you know that he’d destroy us.”

He looked deep into Dean’s eyes then, as though there were something far deeper he intended to convey, without words. Dean shook his head again, though the movement was so slight, his neck tiring of the motion.

Balthazar’s jaw twitched and he looked down. “We failed, Dean. In not making a better back-up plan. We relied on you too much, we read you wrong.”

Garth breathed out heavily and looked at Dean, eyes brimming properly: “We’re... we’re so sorry. If we’d... if we’d known we would have...”

Jo looked to her husband, and let him bury his face in her shoulder. She didn’t take her hands from Dean’s however, and her eyes brimmed too as she looked at him.

“Dean, I...” her voice cracked as she spoke, “I’ve tried so hard to convince her... Balthazar, one of the captains. Lydia too... Ruby, even, she helped, though I think it was because she hated you...” she cracked a small laugh that turned into a sob as she squeezed around his fist tighter.

“I know it’s so foolish, that whatever you have, you... that she can’t see the difference between the role of the Protector and her lover, but...”

She trailed off, and bit her lip, staring down at the table, as a small tear fell and stained the light wood dark, seeping slowly down into its dried material.

“We could... we could talk to Alastair. We could talk to the men. Usurp him from the inside, we-“

Balthazar shook his head at Dean’s suggestion, eyes blank: “We tried. I promise. But what we’d be doing would be treason. I don’t trust Alastair, Dean. He wants the power too much. They’d obey from fear, if nothing else.”

“Surely, I could... I could tell her that she needs be on the Road. That she’d be better to have a husband who could be with her and care for the children. They’ve done it before – separate husbands and Lord Protectors. It’s not set-“

Jo bit her lip and stared at Dean, eyes brimming over: “Dean, I told her. I did. But she says... she says that she needs the strongest husband to create the strongest child, in order to pass on her gift. Her leader will be her lover. She won’t have it any other way.”

Dean recoiled from Jo’s touch then , and she let him, although the movement made her emit a small sob and Garth reached over to pull her against him and give her a brief hug. Dean watched the gesture angrily, that comfort should be offered to Jo rather than he after what was being asked of him, but the reaction quickly quelled when they both looked back to him, tear-stained faces and lips trembling.

Dean leaned forward and rested his forehead against his hand for a moment, before bringing it back up and letting it move in an absent minded circle as he tried to pull himself from the reality he was facing.

“I need, I need some time, I-“

“Dean, you need to tell her soon. Before Alastair gets to her.”

“Alright! I-“

He leaned backwards, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “What about... no, no, not Ca-“ He smothered the name by a cry rather than a conscious effort, and Balthazar reached forward then and grasped his arm as Dean leaned forward, his mouth twisting around an expression of denial as his eyes crinkled around tears that wouldn’t come forward, but burned at the back of his throat, refusing to realize themselves and admit what must be done.

“I can’t... I can’t leave him.”

Balthazar’s hand clenched around his arm tightly, and while Dean’s heart momentarily stabbed forwards in fear as he realized the fact that he’d said _him_ rather than _her_ , no one in the room mentioned it, except for Jo who said: “We’re so sorry, Dean.”

Dean shut his eyes tight to the watching group, as Castiel’s face swam before his – the emptiness that had haunted it that day in the clearing when he had discovered his brother charred and destroyed on the forest floor, and when he saw himself in that body and had all but disappeared from Dean because of it. Then Castiel’s face below him, eyes wide and blown as Dean touched him tenderly, lips twisting around platitudes and promises, and wide eyed determination to live written across his every feature with a bright energy that Dean had kissed desperately, pleading with it to stay with Cas, and invigorate him. To keep him with Dean, as long as he was ready to love him.

He stood up at once, pushing the chair backwards so that it screeched across the floor.

“I have to go to him.”

“ _Dean_.”

“I-I have to tell him. I have to... God, I love him. I have to see him.”

“ _Dean_.” Balthazar stopped Jo’s words with a raise of his hand.

“I’m taking a group out on the Road tomorrow, Dean. It’s the last trade of the season. You can leave with us. If you leave tonight, people will talk, and Lilith might not keep to her promise of two weeks.”

Dean lowered himself carefully back to the chair, and nodded.

“Jo can keep Lilith distracted from Alastair. And Lydia can try too, even if Lilith won’t see her at the moment. We’ll spin a story so that she doesn’t make her decision until then. In any case, you’ll have to be back in a week for the trial.”

Dean nodded slower again, and raised a palm to wipe at his mouth, which he felt seemed to froth with urgency at the prospect of going to Cas. Of telling him... Oh God, he couldn’t even think on it.

“Can you be back by then?”

Dean nodded once again, the gesture growing smaller and less enthusiastic as Balthazar scrutinized him carefully, eyes sorrowful.

“And.... you’ll be able to say goodbye to...to your lover.”

His eyes met Dean’s again, and Dean gagged a little, but he smothered it and nodded, banishing the thought of Castiel’s expression in the clearing from his mind with a vicious swallow and a vigorous shake of his head, while his hand squeezed tight around the mark on his thigh that Castiel had healed.

“And... you’ll be able to... go through with... marrying Lilith?”

Dean gagged properly this time, and Balthazar made way for him to rush for the window, and heave there. Nothing came out, except a thin trail of spittle, which he expatriated towards the ground with disgust, before letting out a shaking breath. Jo came to his side and rubbed his back carefully until the burst of shaking that had overtaken him had subsided and he pulled himself back into the cottage, eyes glassy but posture certain and determined.

“I can do it. I promise. I will.”

There was no happiness in the smiles that the group gave him as they watched him across the table. Instead, Balthazar stood and walked to Dean, pulling him tight into a hug and holding him there, until Dean, at first uncertain, relaxed and clapped his friend across the back once. Garth stepped forward then to do the same, and he was followed by Jo, who wound her arms around Dean’s neck and buried her face into his shoulder, her tears wetting the skin there.

Balthazar departed soon after into the dark street, with a pitiful glance and the apology that he would have to prepare for his trip the next morning. Jo and Garth, however, stayed with Dean in his kitchen for a few hours after, and Jo prepared them a small meal from Dean’s few rations. Garth and Dean sat in relative silence, and when Jo returned they did so as they ate.

It was late and Dean offered them Sam’s bed for the night, which they took politely, and retired there silently.

Dean stayed awake a little later, eventually returning to his room and lying, wide awake, in the sheets there. It struck him that only days before, he’d thought so contentedly of Castiel lying beside him, in a comfortable embrace that promised a lifetime together and easy, unassuming care that filled Dean’s chest with certainty and exhilaration.

The tears started without warning, flowed down Dean’s cheeks freely, but his lungs and throat soon caught up, until he was heaving hiccupping breaths that aborted any proper attempt at breathing, and he was howling silently into his pillow.

Jo’s soft tread outside his door was barely discernible, and she stepped across the threshold silently too, but before sitting on his bed, she warned him of her presence, with a soft, whispered: “Dean?”

His answering cry was enough, and she sat down on the bed, pulling him to her so that his head lay across her lap and cradling it there, running her hands through his hair and down his neck carefully.

As Dean sobbed against her, silently, but with tortured twists of his face that sent his muscles spasming, she whispered: “what’s his name, Dean?”

Dean hiccupped the words through a few frantic breaths, that made Jo reach forward and run her fingers down his cheek in comfort. “Ca-Cas.”

“Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

Dean only cried harder at first, but Jo repeated the question enough that eventually he managed to whisper out hoarsely: “he... he’s the most... God, Jo, I love him.”

Jo nodded and carded her hand through his hair softly, curling her fingers around the shell of Dean’s ear. “How does he make you feel?”

“Alive... and happy... he says I’m made of stardust.”

He could almost hear Jo’s smile above him as she stroked his hair again and grazed his temple lightly with her thumb: “He sure has a way with words.”

Dean nodded against Jo’s thigh and turned over a little so he was looking up at her: “the way he talks, Jo. It’s like he’s the reason words were invented. He makes them so beautiful.”

“And he cares for you?”

Dean nodded again, eyes shining a little as he recalled Castiel’s care as he’d stitched his leg closed after the attack, and the way he’d supported Dean around his cottage for months. And the joy on his face when he’d revealed Impala to him the day Dean had run, and the way he’d held Dean in the cave as the Angelus outside brayed for his blood.

“I- I don’t know why. But he’s risked everything for me. He almost died for me.”

Jo nodded softly and brought her other palm to Dean’s head to massage at his temples lightly.

“And have you told him you love him?”

Dean allowed the pressure of her fingers to sink deeper into his temples, and forced the relaxation she was so earnestly trying to provide to release the worry there.

“Not... not properly. But I’ve felt it... I think he knows.”

“You need to tell him. And show him. He’ll want to know, Dean, even if it’s goodbye.”

Dean nodded softly and a few more tears welled at the edges of his eyes. Jo wiped them away as they fell and returned to stroking his temples, voice soft.

“Some people go their whole lives without what you have with him, Dean. They never know. I know that... I know that you don’t want to leave him. I can’t... I can’t comprehend how hard it will be. But I know you’re brave. And I know that whoever you love, he must be brave too. And you can only thank God that you got a little time to know how it’s supposed to be. It was a blessing, Dean.”

His tears flow more freely and Jo pulls him up to hug him properly, pressing their temples together and stroking his hair softly.

“He’s the luckiest man to have ever existed, to have your love Dean. And I’m sure he knows it. He loves you, and he’ll understand. I promise you.”

Dean fell asleep in tears, and Jo stayed with him over the course of the night, watching him carefully and stroking him through the nightmares that followed – Castiel’s own head mounted on the branch, eyes gormless, and his wings at Lilith’s back. She roused him early in the morning to dress for the Road, and Garth had prepared them breakfast when they emerged from Dean’s room. It was a testament to their own marriage that there was only love in Garth’s eyes when he looked to his wife, who had Dean’s hand clutched in hers and kissed him on the cheek in farewell. And when Jo reached forward to hug him tightly again, Garth followed and wrapped his gangly arms around them both, until Jo stopped crying and Dean’s breathing evened.

Garth lead him down to the Gates just after dawn, and they met Balthazar there, who had taken the liberty of saddling Impala for him.

He said little, although he looked at Dean with overwhelming sadness as he handed him his mare’s reigns, and gave him a quick, tight hug.

“I’ll see you soon, brother.” Dean scarcely had the words in his throat to respond, but he nodded once and met Balthazar’s gaze. And that was enough, it seemed, to farewell his friend and reassure him of his promise the night before. Balthazar nodded briskly and proceeded to turn on his heel and return to his men, briefing them on their route, and giving a brief explanation of Dean’s presence.

When the gates opened, Dean lead out on Impala, and the group followed. At the first fork, only ten minutes in, Balthazar’s group took the fork that would double back and take them to their trading town, the name of which Dean didn’t register through the ringing in his ears. As he departed, the skies were clear, and Dean heard the echo of his men’s screams from a year ago in his ears again as the sound of Balthazar’s group gave way to the silence of the forest, and before long he had kicked Impala into a fast gallop, pushing her forward with all the urgency he had and feebly attempting to block out the echoes of his dying men with the sound of her hoofbeats as they ploughed at the ground.

...

Castiel stayed in the cavern for a week, sleeping when he could stomach it and otherwise anxiously listening to the floorboards above, freezing with phantom creaks and scrapes even when he knew that he’d boarded the door and he’d hear an Angelus entering.

It was seven days later the first time he left the cavern for any length of time that wasn’t his relieving himself, retrieving more supplies, or boarding the entrances to the cottage. That morning, he summoned half an hour of energy to pile the wrecked furniture into the corner of the sitting room, and to rearrange his nest into something resembling its original form – although many of the furs were so ragged that they lay thinly on the ground, without any of their former plump or warmth.

The next morning, he managed longer – enough time to descend to the cellar and take inventory of his rations. He had a little left – fruits and nuts that were of no use to the Angelus, though they’d been so unkind as to upend many of his other stores without the desire to take them, and much he was forced to throw out after so long on the filthy floor of the cellar.

His winter stores were shot. There was enough for a few weeks left, but hardly enough to even comprehend a sensible rationing plan. Even with a rigorous gathering and hunting schedule in the forest, it seemed unlikely that he would make up the loss. In any event, his stomach twisted with fear at the thought of even attempting to venture outside given the week’s events previously, and he found himself more than once cowering in the cavern for no good reason other than his fear and instinct had momentarily taken over.

He worried for Dean constantly, particularly regarding his promise to meet him outside the City. He knew, if Dean had made it there, he would be concerned, and the thought was enough for a boundless supply of guilt to keep the taste in Castiel’s mouth bitter when he did manage to forget the attack for even a moment. But it was worse to imagine how he might seek to make his way to the City. His wing ached and swelled, despite his frantic efforts to clean it. The skin was healing, but it was in very poor condition for flight, and certainly not ready to facilitate a quick escape should Castiel happen upon any group of Angelus in the forest.

His surroundings were quiet in the ensuing days, but he couldn’t shake the sense that horror hung on the periphery, and that the loss of his guard would be the end of him. It was too soon to forget that it almost had been the first time, and the empty-headed madness that his body had pulsed with in the face of mortality.

Castiel tried to console himself with the hope that Dean had been preoccupied in the City. His brother’s child would be due to be born within the next few weeks, and he and his wife would surely need Dean’s support and attention desperately. Failing that, he surely had more officious duties to attend to, and numerous briefings to carry out with the Lord Protector, particularly regarding his special activities throughout the course of the year. But it did little to dismiss the earnestness of Dean’s promise that he would meet Castiel in the forest, nor his unrestrained expectation of the event. For when he talked of seeing Castiel next, he burned with the intention of it, so gloriously that Castiel doubted constantly that it weren’t some trick of his imagination. For the thought that that kind of energy could be directed towards him was incomparable.

The sound of hoofbeats in the forest seemed like a distant memory the afternoon that Dean arrived. Castiel might have almost mistaken their sound for the pound of his own heart, which never seemed to quell in his worry every passing day. He scarcely noticed the approach as he sat amongst his nest, unbandaging his arm to check for the status of its healing, and wincing as he exposed the sticky fluids his body had generated to ward of infection to the air, with a slick peeling sound,

When the sound drew closer, however, he registered it in a fit, pressing himself back against the wall of his cottage and stilling, as though he might make himself invisible. There was a strange beat of stillness as the hoofbeats slowed to a trot, and then burst forward again in a confusing pattern. A moment later, Castiel heard a muffled “shit”, before the sound of a saddle being dismounted and footsteps up the stairs before his cottage.

“Cas! CAS!”

Dean didn’t even bother to keep his voice low and cautious, despite the obvious ruin of the cottage, as he hammered on the door. At once, Castiel stumbled from the wall towards the doorway. Dean hammered so loudly, he seemed not to notice the sounds of Castiel moving about inside, for his voice grew higher and panicked.

“Cas, please, answer me. Please Cas!”

The door was boarded shut, but Castiel started knocking back until Dean’s fit eventually tapered off and he waited on the other side of the door.

“Cas. Is that you?”

“Keep your voice down, Dean.”

Castiel whispered, dropping down the a gap in doorway from where an Angel’s heel had kicked it down to stare outwards. Dean detected the sound of his voice and dropped down too, so that their eyes met through the wood.

“Cas! What happened here?”

“Come around the back. Take Impala to the stable. Close and lock the door behind you. Ward it.”

Dean nodded quickly and set off stealthily, ignoring his fitful outburst before. Castiel waited at the back entrance of the cottage, by the stone door, as he heard the sounds of Dean leading his mare inside. He didn’t bother to tie her there, instead quickly proceeding to the door and bringing down the metal barrier there. There was a moment of silence, before he shuffled back to the others side of the door, where Castiel waited.

“What do I use for wards?”

“There’s some resin in the left corner by the door. Use that.”

As Dean found the resin and set to warding the place, Castiel fumbled with the lock at the stable door – rusted from disuse as an entrance and exit to the cottage. Dean had already finished one side of the stable by the time Castiel made his way into the space, and he dropped his resin the moment he saw his lover’s state.

“Cas!”

Castiel winced as Dean seized his arm with too much urgency, and the wound throbbed beneath his less than careful examination. Dean’s eyes barely rested there for long, instead searching the rest of Castiel’s body, and widening when he saw the ragged state of Castiel’s wing, were it hung limp at the base – the flesh clearly still torn in two and poorly stitched together.

“What happened here?”

Dean didn’t wait for an answer before pulling Castiel towards him in a tight, bearish hug. His hands went to Castiel’s scalp and he carded his fingers through it in a tender caress, while pressing his face into Castiel’s shoulder and inhaling shakily.

Castiel let his lips mouth a small kiss onto Dean’s skin before he pulled away, noting absent-mindedly the slight glaze across Dean’s irises as he registered him.

“They breached the boundary.”

“Why?”

Dean’s brow furrowed as he said the words, as though he expected a rational explanation might be forthcoming. Castiel merely shrugged and looked downwards, bringing his unwounded arm’s hand to the injured one, and cradling it against his chest.

“How long ago?”

“Over a week.”

Dean exhaled quickly and pulled Castiel tight to him again, tilting his chin up and laying a passionate but contained kiss on his lips, breathing heavily through his nose for the duration.

“God, Cas, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have...”

Castiel shook his head and reached forward to pull Dean close again, parting his lips for Dean’s touch, and salvaging the familiar taste to whet the metallic dryness of his mouth with whiskey and linseed. It went to his belly, just as the alcohol had, and warmed him there, driving out some of fear’s paralysis.

Dean responded by clasping Castiel’s face in his hands, and returning the favour, licking into Castiel’s mouth with ferocity and pushing him backwards until he was pressed up against the wall of the stable. The kisses went no further, but they proclaimed much, as they both grappled to hold the other nearer to them in reassurance, amidst Castiel’s winces and groans when his injuries were aggravated.

“Why are you here, Dean? Did you wait for me in the forest?”

Castiel breathed out the words when Dean moved to kiss his neck, suckling on his earlobe with a vicious kind of tenderness, that went beyond gentleness into a bite, but left Castiel feeling cherished somehow regardless. Dean pulled backwards slowly, his eyes scanning Castiel’s face, as though he expected more from him.

“Yeah. I waited for you. Sam had his baby. I wanted to tell you the news. When you weren’t there, I came straight here.”

He didn’t wait for Castiel’s response before he dived closer to him again, pressing kisses and grazing his teeth against Castiel’s jawline with renewed urgency, until the press of Castiel’s wing against the wall behind him caused him to cry and out and Dean withdrew.

“How did you make it through the forest? The Angelus, they’ve been here for days.”

Dean shook his head lightly, and ran his thumb across Castiel’s cheekbone. “I didn’t... I didn’t see any, Cas. Whatever happened, they’re gone for the moment. I was just so worried about getting to you – I didn’t seem them.”

Castiel nodded once and let Dean lean forward pressing his lips to Castiel’s once, while Castiel murmured.

“What if they come back? How will you get back to the City?”

Dean shook his head, brushing his lips against Castiel’s horizontally, replying in a hoarse whisper: “Don’t worry about that Cas. I’m not leaving you here. Not now. I’m keeping you safe, alright?”

...

** 1425 **

Jessica and Sam both shook their heads in incredulity as Castiel finished, and beside him, Greg seemed no less awed than he had the first time he’d heard the story that morning, before he’d allowed Castiel to finish Pride and Prejudice, snickering when Castiel had smiled at the couple’s final declaration of love.

“Cas... how could that possibly have happened? All at once?”

Castiel raised his eyes to Jessica’s slowly, looking away from his point of focus – Greg’s fingers toying loosely with the amulet at his wrist he wasn’t bothering to hide any more.

“There were many forces at work at that time. Some of a new kind that I had yet to encounter. The proper beginnings of evil.”

She shuddered and leaned backwards into Sam’s shoulder, and he adjusted for her slightly, allowing her to lean properly against his chest and tilt her head towards his.

“De-Dean... he stayed with you?”

Greg seemed almost reluctant to pronounce the words, but his curiosity was evident in the way he leaned towards Castiel, and his eyes sought Castiel’s for answer.

Castiel shook his head softly, voice faltering as he said: “He’d made a promise to his people. He was prepared to give them his life.”

“No, but Lilith-“

Jessica leaned forward out of Sam’s grasp as she shook her head, eyes blazing. “Lilith... how _could she_? With Dean’s mandate, she had no right to ask anything more of him.”

Castiel sighed and shook his head again. “She had her rationales, and she couldn’t be swayed.”

“No. NO. It didn’t have to be him or Alastair. They could have done something, surely?”

Jessica’s eyebrows slanted downward from the bridge of her nose to the side of her face, in an expression that clearly said she barely believed the words herself, but she sought the declaration from Castiel nonetheless. Beside him, Greg shifted a little, and his leg fell minutely closer to Castiel’s, although there was still perhaps a palm’s width apart between them.

“What could they have done? Lilith would accept nothing less, and Alastair was determined. They had their city to think of.”

“He was rotten, Cas. Surely they could have outvoted him. Or... intimidated him. I don’t know. He tried to kill Dean. They could have...” her words trailed off as she conceded the last option was an impossibility, no matter how unsavory Alastair’s character.

“They were men of honor,  Jessica. They felt they had little choice. Perhaps if they had known earlier, they could have done more. But they were hamstrung. Had anything happened to Alastair, Lilith would have known. And they’d both of them ruined their chances to replace Dean. Garth was married. And Balthazar could never even have attracted Lilith’s eye for a moment.”

“She didn’t need a husband.”

“Of course, but she wanted one. And she was willing to create chaos in order to attain her goal.”

Jessica pursed her lips, and let herself be pulled backwards by Sam, who rubbed her arm sympathetically.

“She was vile.”

“She was, and more. “ Sam and Greg nodded enthusiastically at the statement, and even Mike grumbled with something of an assent.

A silence fell after that, until Sam broke it by suggesting they get some sleep before they continue. Jessica was less bleary-eyed than her partner, but she let him take her hand and lead her to their bedroom, not before dropping a good night kiss onto Castiel’s forehead. Bobby fell asleep on the couch for half an hour or so, before Greg eventually decided to wake him and escort him back to his own room. When he returned, he looked fairly exhausted too, though his eyes shone underneath the weak lighting of the area as he watched Castiel.

“Want me to stay awake with you?”

Castiel shook his head mildly, smiling as Greg attempted to blink away a little tiredness in his eyes. “Please, sleep now Greg. We can continue in the morning.”

Greg nodded once, and let a yawn escape, and Castiel chuckled at the dull expression it gave Dean as he exhaled around it and brought his jaw to a close, letting the muscles shiver slightly as he did so.

He didn’t move for a moment, and Castiel stared as he shuffled nervously on his feet before him, body dull but eyes nervous as he stared.

“Greg?”

Greg blinked once, and then once again, more deliberately, smiling and shaking his head as though to dislodge the fuzziness there.

“Sorry, tireder than I realised. Thanks for the story, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other for some moments again, before Greg took a nervous step forward, eyes widening, but limbs lethargic still, as though he felt himself in a dream.

“I, uh, I’m really sorry for running out the other day. I hope you forgive me.”

Castiel nodded again and smiled uncertainly, before confessing lightly: “Of course, I do.”

“Good. Good.”

Greg pressed his lips together and stepped forward again once more, fingers twitching at his sides as he stepped closer to Castiel, eyes fixed upon him with relentless determination.

“I... I’m sorry too. That Dean... that he didn’t stay with you. I’m sorry it all fucked up, Cas.”

Castiel swallowed as he looked away for a moment, taking a reprieve from Greg’s sudden intensity, before looking back to meet his green eyes, and licking his lips.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Greg shrugged lightly, shaking his head softly, as though he didn’t believe the words, and swallowing in mimicry of Castiel. When he spoke, his palate sounded dry, and there was a wet sound as his tongue left the roof of his mouth to enable speech: “I know, but... I’m sorry anyway, Cas. I really am.”

They watched one another for another moment before Greg stepped backwards quickly, bringing a thumb to the side of his mouth and swiping at it, eyes dropping to Castiel’s feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before he departed from the room, marching deliberately to Sam’s room and shutting the door behind him.

Castiel didn’t sleep, as he’d expected. Even if he’d willed the action out of habit, he was distracted. First, with his memories. Second, with the sound of kisses being exchanged beyond the wall, and Sam’s murmur of “G’night Jess” and the contented beat of their heats as they fell asleep in one another’s arms – as far as Castiel was aware, for the first time. But third, and most importantly, the fact that beyond the wall within the motel, he heard the sound of Greg settle into bed and breathe deeply and determinedly . But no matter how many times Greg rolled in his bed, and tore at the sheets covering his body, and throwing them off him in frustration, he too was not greeted with any kind of sleep, and his heart hammered with astounding energy until the dawn marked the beginning of the morning.

 

 


	24. In Common

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hello my dears, and apologies for the slight lateness of this chapter. Here in Kiwiland, as I am sure is also the case elsewhere, we get a public holiday on the Monday of Easter. I was away at my bach (charming kiwi slang for a house by the sea, which I attend on various holiday occasions), where there is no wireless asides from that of the small library, which is rarely forthcoming when it is being systematically annihilated serving the instagram-related needs of other holidayers. As such, I waited until I was back in my home before I made the upload. Since this chapter is nearly 12,000 words long (almost two chapters, really) I hope this makes up for the delay in kind.
> 
> I have been the elated receiver of some very kind reviews recently. Thank you to those lovely readers – my day was sparkling because of you.
> 
> Also, I might add, this chapter is worse than the last :(

**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE**

** 1425 **

Castiel knew Dean had been lying within hours of his arrival. They set about cleaning the cottage together, and Dean moved some of the unsalvageable furniture out to the stable, talking mildly but dully of making something of his own to replace it. “How hard can carpentry be, Cas?” His tone suggested the words were a joke, but neither of them laughed. His voice was too bare to crack the tension that froze the room solid.

He marked the entire house with sigils that afternoon, telling Cas that he’d leave one sigil slightly unfinished, to allow them an escape if they needed. But when Castiel became tired and his eyes drooped, Dean crossed the room and scratched the final mark into the wall with his resin, before turning back and supporting Castiel back to his nest.

Despite the sigils, Dean kept his sword by their bedside, and he propped his back up against the wall, pulling Castiel in beside him and placing his head to rest against his thighs. Castiel’s fear warded off proper sleep, although his body ached for it, and his limbs tingled in anticipation. Dean massaged his temples for what must have been an hour, and promised safe watch for longer, before sleep eventually overtook Castiel. It was too dream-filled to be of much use, except to stave off the worst of the deprivation. A few hours later, when he woke, panicked, Dean had not moved, and his eyes were still wide and fixed on the door in front of them.

Dean turned his attention away from it for long enough to comfort Castiel from his nightmare with kisses, and to make him promise in a whisper to try and sleep for a few more hours. Castiel barely succeeded, but Dean praised him the morning and rewarded him with a deep lingering kiss that made Castiel’s stomach feel like it might be forced out of his mouth with nausea. But Dean ignored the off-ness of it, in favor of preparing them breakfast in silence, and bringing it back to Castiel in the nest when he was done.

Dean managed to exit the house for a few hours to collect fresh water from the river, and to gather whatever was available from the surrounding forest area. Castiel had attempted to accompany him, but Dean had pressed him back into the furs and warned him to stay put, or so help him God he would make him.

The wait was fraught and terrifying, and when Dean returned, they spent the next hour in bed together, clutching one another voicelessly as Castiel burrowed into Dean’s familiar warmth. But his skin was cool when Dean left him to prepare their midday meal, and no amount of vigorous rubbing from Dean’s hands seemed to be enough to warm it up in the afternoon. Their eyes met as Dean pulled him close and wrapped him in a fur, but Dean looked away quickly and resumed his watch of the door before Castiel could ask him the question that they both sensed, but made no mention of.

But the brewing, broiling unspoken concern was bound to emerge soon enough, and while Dean managed to delay its discussion for a few hours in the afternoon, by politely asking Castiel if he could sleep for a little while, when he awoke, the tension made the air too tight to avoid it. His resolution was clear when Castiel let Dean reach forward and stroke a thumb down his jaw and across his lips, but did little to reciprocate, as he usually would, and Dean didn’t push the matter.

However Dean had undercooked their dinner, and remained silent for around two hours, before Castiel found the voice to broach the subject, and when he did so, it was with trembling uncertainty and utter unwillingness: “What happened in the City, Dean?”

Dean’s head shot up and his eyes stayed wide and frozen, although his statue-like positioning was ruined by the sudden furious pulse of a muscle at his jaw, that seemed determined to reveal the truth of whatever remained unspoken when Dean himself did not. There was no way to escape the directness of the question, and after an afternoon of tense and nervous waiting, it was unavoidable in any event. Still, Dean brought over the crunchy beans and sprouts wordlessly, placing Castiel’s in his lap and setting his own aside wordlessly.

He let a hand rest on Castiel’s shin, while with the other he rubbed nervously at the back of his neck, letting his head hang low.

“Cas... I don’t know what to do.”

His hand clenched tight around the bone as he said the words, and his fingers’ grip on Castiel’s calf turned almost painful, and made the muscle twitch beneath the touch. Dean immediately withdrew his hold with a horrified expression, but Castiel leaned forward and placed a hand on his, twisting his body so that the position didn’t require an uncomfortable stretch of his hamstrings.

“What’s happened?”

Dean pursed his lips, and raised eyes quivering beneath a sheen of tears to Castiel’s, before leaning forwards and kissing him tightly, which seemed to only increase the tension across his body, for he fell backwards out of the kiss, breathing harshly.

It took the press of Castiel’s palms to either side of his face and whispered words of encouragement for the story to reveal itself, and while Castiel’s hands dropped in shock from their hold on Dean’s face around halfway, Dean continued stoically, even when his voice cracked, and then reduced to a hoarse whisper when he spoke of his promise to the City’s slayers.

“But Cas... what’s happened here... I’m not leaving you, you understand? I’m staying here.”

Castiel’s gaze had dropped to his own lap, and he watched the twist of his own fingers in his breeches with a focused fascination that determinedly avoided the subject at hand. There was a heavy silence for a long while, before Dean gave a soft gasp and murmured “Cas?”, his voice on the edge of tears. It was enough to startle Castiel to answer, and he reached forward and pulled Dean into a quick embrace, massaging the back of his neck when he felt the drip of a few tears against his shoulder. When he withdrew, Dean was already shaking his head, anticipating Castiel’s answer, but still he pronounced the words anyway: “You have to go back to Dean, and you have to marry her. There’s no other choice.”

Dean’s shoulders rolled forwards, and his head craned forwards on his neck, as though he might vomit, and Castiel pulled him close again, letting a hand raise to Dean’s head and fingers run through his hair. He murmured kindness as much as he could, but there was a dirty, polluted kind of feeling in his stomach that made the words sound insincere, and his touches to Dean feel cruel and angry, and he withdrew quickly,  scratching at his nose lightly.

“Cas, I can try something else. There have been Empresses before with one Lord Protector and one husband. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Either way, Dean, you could not return to the Road. And for the safety of your City and its people, you cannot take the risk of requesting that. Your position is still insecure; she might choose Alastair if you press to hard.”

Dean shook his head again, even though the words were clear, and he was obviously without answer. He continued in a seeming fit of madness, until Castiel stopped the movement with a touch of his hand, and Dean crumpled as Castiel stated, as blandly as he could: “There is no other choice.”

“I’ll kill him.” Dean murmured violently into Castiel’s shoulder as his shaking subsided. “I’ll kill him for making me do this, I swear it.”

The words were said in anger, and horror, but Dean’s body was set as he said them, and there was grimness in his tone. Castiel pulled Dean away from his shoulder and looked directly in his eyes: “You know you will do no such thing. It is not in your nature, Dean. You are not a murderer, and I love you for that.”

Dean’s lips twisted into a scowl, that was not petulant, but heartbroken, and he leaned forward and kissed Castiel lightly. “Cas, I love you too. I would... I would have for... I don’t want to do it.”

“You must.”

Castiel silenced his protest with another kiss, and then another – nothing more than a tender touch of lips, but enough to stifle Dean’s devastation momentarily.

“Perhaps I can find an excuse to come on the Road. I can come and see you. Make sure you’re safe.”

Castiel kissed Dean again, quietly certain that would be impossible, but willing to entertain the fiction if it would let Dean through this moment, and imbue him with the courage to continue on the right course.

“You have to do your duty, Dean. I can care for myself.”

The words came out as a lie, and they were, although neither of them made any mention of it, and Dean surged forward to kiss Castiel, open-mouthed this time, and hungry. Castiel responded in kind, ignoring the trace of Dean’s tears on his cheek and the destroyed cabin around them as he plunged his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean reciprocated, and the kiss became a spit-slick, breathy affair where both passed off the other’s cries as sounds of desire, rather than the obvious grief, and pulled themselves closer together, Castiel ignoring the pain in his arm that resulted from his tight grip at the back of Dean’s neck.

“When- when do you have to go back to the City?”

Castiel pronounced the words between heavy breaths, forehead resting against Dean’s as he attempted to compose himself, and kept his eyes very carefully off Dean’s face and even further from the strangled grimace at his lips..

“I- As soon as... Every day I’m not there Lilith might think I won’t come back. I need to-“

Castiel kissed him again, fiercer even than before, and Dean swallowed his words to make way for the violence of it.

When they broke apart to breathe, Castiel gasped: “If tonight is the last of it... can I ask you for something, Dean?”

Dean nodded hastily against Castiel’s cheek and turned his head for another sloppily aggressive kiss before panting: “Anything, Cas.”

They kissed for a few minutes more before Castiel pulled away, and buried his face in Dean’s shoulder, holding him close.

“Can you... if we had had the time... I would have wanted to know every part of... you, of you Dean. I don’t want you to be careful with me, I just... I want...”

Dean nodded and leaned forward, kissing him softly and teasing at his lips with his teeth – although the motion was not seductive, but pained. “Of course. I love you.”

Dean didn’t waste time in divesting Castiel of his shirt, and his own, before bringing them flush together and running his hands across the small of Castiel’s back, fingers occasionally dipping beneath the line of his breeches and teasing at the skin there like it was forbidden. Castiel let his head loll to the side as Dean descended there with his lips, kissing declarations of love and lost promises into his skin and memorizing Castiel’s taste. In his fit of pre-emptive regret, Castiel’s skin almost felt numb to him at first, but Castiel willed it into recognizing the sanctity of the moment – to cherish every touch so that it lay across his skin after Dean left it, invigorating it with a the hum of a memory that once-   _once_ \-  it had been loved, as it was being loved now.

Dean seemed to sense the internal battle that Castiel was waging, for he vested himself in his skin absolutely, seeking out every miniscule part that might not yet have come into contact with him, and promising himself to it with words and touches.

He had Castiel on his back, pressed tight into the nest, and rolling beneath him when he pulled backwards, eyes wide and breath suddenly starting with anxiety. “Wait. Wait. Cas, please.”

Castiel followed him upwards as he pulled back, eyes questioning, and one hand still clutching at the soft skin of Dean’s bicep, squeezing into the muscle.

“Dean?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Dean leaned further backwards, wiping his mouth as though pushing the taste of Castiel away, and pulling his hand away from him, placing it gently back on the bed and exhaling as slowly as he could manage, as a whistle through puckered lips.

“Cas, I don’t want to marry Lilith.”

Castiel shook his head, before reaching forward and caressing Dean’s cheek. “Dean, you have to. You know that. You could never abandon your people  - I know you can.”

“No. No.” Dean shook his head and leaned into Castiel’s touch, eyes shimmering in the dim light of the cabin. “I mean, I will. I’ll do it for them. But Cas, I don’t want to stand before your Father and swear myself to her. It’s a lie.”

“My Father will forgive you Dean. Your path is righteous.” Dean reached his hand up to his face and removed Castiel’s, interlacing their fingers and squeezing their palms together. He brought Castiel’s hand to his mouth, and kissed the back of it, lips grazing each knuckle and drawing the taste of him out, making the bones beneath feel as they might crack with the exertion of bearing his worship.

“It’s not that... I- I know that I have to... it’s just that I want it to be you. I don’t want to lie.”

“You can’t stay with me.”

Dean’s eyes flashed as he looked back up to Castiel, before his mouth twisted and puckered around a sob at the back of his throat. Castiel surged forward to cradle Dean’s head against his shoulder, and allowed to huff out a few shaky breaths, before Dean nodded against the flesh and withdrew.

He didn’t bother to hide his tears as he continued:

“I know, I mean... before I leave. Cas, I never thought your Father existed before. But now that I know that I’d be promising something to... Cas, I want it to be real first, before I lie. ”

Castiel paused as Dean’s wide eyes let the implication sink in, and he felt it become absorbed in his skin, simultaneously setting him alight with grief and elation.

“You want to...?”

Beneath tearful eyes, the small smile that quicked on Dean’s lips was so positively genuine and sweet that Castiel had to drop his gaze for a moment, certain that if he looked upon it too long he could not be called to carry out the selfless act that was required of him the next morning.

“If... if you want. If you’ll have me, Cas.”

His sniff afterwards might have ruined the entire declaration if Castiel had been in any better mind. But he ignored the sound in favor of answering him with a sound kiss and a twist of the hair at the back of his head. He was seated in Dean’s lap, wings curled around them tightly when Dean pulled back, forcing a small smile and a jovial tone, as this were another night together in the cabin with a promise of tomorrow: “It’s traditional that we consummate after the marriage, Cas.”

Castiel pulled back with a blush that made Dean chuckle, although beneath the amusement there was resentment still, and it made Dean keep hold of Castiel’s hand as he pulled away, keeping their fingers interlaced.

“I’m ready,” Castiel murmured, as Dean watched him searchingly, and Dean answered with a squeeze of his hand, although he didn’t speak. “I... I am not sure how to proceed, however.”

Dean cracked another smile, but his right eye twitched and Castiel saw a line of tears pool there, hovering tentatively over the edge gearing themselves up for the drop.

Dean reached forward slowly and took Castiel’s other hand and he brought their enjoined hands to rest together on his knees, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Castiel’s. They stayed in silence for a long moment, before Dean murmured.

“To be honest, I’ve never really been to many of these, except Garth and Jo’s. But I never listened anyway. Was more interested in the girls afterwards.”

He sniffed again and laughed silently, and surged forward to nuzzle his nose into Castiel’s cheek. Castiel let him, but let his hands stay in Dean’s grip, ignoring their slight shake and Dean’s too-tight hold.

“But,” Dean continued against Castiel’s skin, “I guess... I guess it’s the feeling rather than the words, right? You think your Father would agree with that?”

Castiel nodded silently, and flinched slightly when a tear dropped from Dean’s  cheek to the skin of their hands, seemingly drenching the skin with regret as it did so, that Castiel felt sink to his core. Dean nodded with Castiel, acknowledging the statement, and commenced, stammering  and sniffing as he murmured:

“Cas... leaving you will be the biggest regret of my life.” He breathed in carefully as his voice shook on the last word, and nodded softly, seemingly to reassure himself as he whispered: “I... I never thought that I’d find someone to care about the way I... I love you, Cas. My mother and my father, and Sammy and Ruby, and Garth and Jo... I thought that I was too... too driven by the Road, and too ruined by it to know how to feel that.”

He squeezed Castiel’s hands tightly as he continued. “I’m sorry I wasted so much time. When I think of how I treated you when I first came here...” He shuffled in his seat, and Castiel squeezed his hands back in slow, careful reassurance, “The way you talk... I can’t stop listening to what you say, how you say it. And I can’t stop watching you as you watch the world. It’s so... the way you love what your Father created, Cas. It makes me love you.”

He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Castiel’s lips. “You’re the most selfless and the bravest person I’ve ever known, and, even if I never really believed in your Father before I met you, I’ve been thanking him every day since I met you, _uh_...”

He huffed a quick breath in as his voice shook, and tears swelled in his throat. Castiel leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Dean’s again, and stared him directly in the eyes. Dean blinked hurriedly as he reciprocated the gaze and swallowed carefully, jaw shivering around contained violent emotion.

“I don’t know the words to do this, but... I swear before God that I’d have... I’d have done anything for you, Cas. And what I am doing, it’s all for you – to keep you safe. I would have loved you till I die. I _will_. I will.”

He swallowed again as his throat jumped with a dry sob, and he pressed his forehead so tightly against Castiel’s it felt like it might bruise.

“I promise that I’m yours. Always. Whenever we see each other again, I’ll wait until then. I promise.”

He finished with a small cry and Castiel untangled their hands to reach forward and cradle Dean’s face in them, before drawing a small kiss from his lips and nodding silently until Dean’s tears slowed and he managed to look at Castiel again, eyes swimming with his promises.

“Dean, I...” Castiel caught himself as he heard the hoarse rumble of his voice, so much lower in register than he was used to, and strangely soft under the effort of the words he did not wish to speak, at least in these circumstances. “I have witnessed much in my existence, and I have felt more. Every sliver of divinity, and every touch of my Father’s hand is known to me. Here.” He brought Dean’s palm forward and placed it on his bare chest, in the centre, where his Grace coiled at his core.

“All of it – every part – it pales to you.”

Dean’s hand twitched on Castiel’s chest but he kept it resting there, fingers nervously pulling against the skin.

“What you will do for your people, what you are willing to do, marks you out as one of the greatest and most righteous men that has ever walked the Earth’s surface, and I promise that my Father, whatever his plans for me, will reward you when it comes time for you to meet him. He cannot deny you, as I could never deny you.”

Dean’s hand raised from Castiel’s chest to cradle his jaw, and Dean’s thumb came to rest on the lobe of Castiel’s ear.

“Dean, with you, I feel so utterly human. So enraptured, so raw and so wanting. I may be Grace, at my core, but I believe that you have transformed me, in order that I feel what I feel for you – I believe you have given me a soul.”

Dean stuttered in his touch, and Castiel reached for his wrist and held it firm.

“In wealth or poverty, in happiness and in sadness, and in health or illness, I would have stayed by you Dean. Whatever might befall you, I would love you as vigorously and as desperately as I do now. And I would never cease to admire you, or esteem you, or treasure you, or the multitude of gifts that you have bestowed upon me.”

Dean’s mouth formed a sad smile, and he pressed it away with a tight coil of lips that seemed to close around a protest.

“Before my Father, wherever he is, but more importantly before you I promise I would have given my life to you, and I would have kept the faith with you. I will never stop loving you, Dean.”

Dean was still as Castiel leaned forward and brushed his lips against Dean’s cheeks first, then his nose, and finally his mouth, and Dean whimpered softly into the touch, tightening his grip against Castiel’s neck. When he was done, Castiel withdrew and breathed against Dean’s skin.

“God, Cas.”

Castiel kissed away the line of despair that flickered across Dean’s cheek, before murmuring: “May  I call you mine now, Dean?”

Dean shivered slightly and pulled back, eyes raking Castiel’s face. His hands withdrew from Castiel’s and shook as he raised them to his own neck, feeling across the skin until he found his brother’s amulet against it. Slowly, and without his eyes leaving Castiel’s, he withdrew the thong from the skin, and pulled it over his head, bringing it to hang between them.

“I...uh, I remember in some weddings.... they usually give each other rings. It’s a... token, I guess, of the promise.”

He shuffled closer to Castiel, putting his hands between the thongs of leather and pulling them apart so a circle formed, the base of which suspended the amulet.

“I... I don’t have a ring, but... I want to give you something, Cas. To remember me by.”

Castiel pulled backwards immediately, and shook his head, tensing: “That is your brother’s Dean. It was meant for you.”

Dean swallowed and his eyes dropped to the amulet quickly, before he looked up and met Castiel’s gaze evenly. “He’d... he’d want me to give it to you, Cas. I promise. I swear, this is what he’d want. And it’s what I want too.”

A silence of impasse fell as Castiel watched the amulet uncertainly. But when he made no move to reject the words, Dean continued and raised the necklace before slowly lowering its ring across the crown of Castiel’s head. “If he can’t ever meet you... I’d like to think that... that he’s still a part of this. He would have loved you, Cas.”

Castiel accepted the gesture quietly, and he let Dean kiss his cheek when he was done. He turned away before Dean had properly pulled away then, searching beside the furs until he located the hilt of his blade, and drawing it upwards, rotating it and holding it so that the hilt was extended towards Dean.

“As a symbol of my promise, I wish that you would take this Dean.”

Dean withdrew as Castiel had, and shook his head. “Cas-“, he didn’t finish the phrase, before Castiel signaled meaningfully to the amulet he now wore. Dean still shook his head, but eventually, under Castiel’s unrelenting stare, he took the hilt of the blade and held it upwards, letting the last of daylight capture the metal and glance of it to dance on the walls around them.

“Are you sure you’ll be safe without this, Cas?”

Castiel nodded quickly, and reached out to bend Dean’s fingers more tightly around the blade. “I have those of my fallen brothers and sisters too. I will keep well. And this will keep you well too.”

They stayed silent for a long while, before Dean carefully placed the blade to the side of the nest and shuffled forward, standing up on his knees to pull his chest flush against Castiel’s. “I... I guess that’s it then. It’s done.”

Castiel nodded, and smiled sadly until Dean leaned forward and kissed the expression from his lips, starting slowly, but letting their lips navigate their desperation and wanton regret until they were clutching one another again, squeezing at each other’s necks and cheeks tightly as they sought closer purchase with one another.

“Do you... what you said before, do you want me to bed you, Cas? Is that what you were asking for?”

Castiel nodded breathlessly against Dean’s lips, and reached down to commence unlacing Dean’s breeches with fumbling fingers, shaking with arousal, fear, sadness – a fatal poison of the three that seemed to both paralyze and overwhelm his entire body at once.

“Yes.”

Dean let him kiss him once before he pulled backwards slowly, peeling back so softly that a line of spit hung between their lips and only pulled apart as Dean dropped his gaze and whispered: “It’ll... it’ll hurt though, Cas... I’m not sure-“

“Please.”

Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s and he surveyed his expression carefully, tracing a thumb along Castiel’s jaw and nodding lightly and pursing his lips. “If... you want.”

Castiel mimicked the nod and kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s.

“I do. Will you guide me, Dean?”

Dean consented wordlessly, leaning forward and puling Castiel’s mouth towards his and meeting it with an open touch, and an unassuming press of his tongue. It was slow, leisurely and tentative, and familiar in its easiness. But beneath that, there was the tang of Dean’s grief and nervousness, and the taste pervaded Castiel’s senses and made him seek harder for the hint of the usual brightness that  that he sought out.

Dean seemed to sense the same on Castiel, for he clutched tighter and his waist and pulled him close again, lowering himself onto his knees and letting Castiel shuffle forward, straddling his lap. When Dean’s arms were wound tightly around it, it didn’t take long for things to proceed from there.

Castiel’s body, despite the circumstance that would befall them tomorrow, was happy to respond to Dean’s proximity as though their promises could last a lifetime. And Dean’s quiet cries into his skin – _Cas_ , _I love you_ , and _you’re mine_ – accelerated the feeling so that in no time at all he was pulling Dean backwards, letting his wings get crushed into the nest as he pulled Dean above him and arched himself up, his face silently contorting into  a cry as Dean met him with a light thrust. But after Dean divested both of them of their clothes, they remained rocking together with a careful slowness, trying to preserve the aching need in each and every touch, rather than hurry it through and welcome the morning too willingly.

Dean froze when Castiel took his wrist and guided him from hi languid strokes to Castiel’s length further backwards, and he pulled his hand away as though Castiel had burned him, wrenching it from his grip.

“Cas, I can’t.”

“Dean?”

Dean didn’t move off of Castiel, although he pushed himself up on his arms quickly so that his weight was off Castiel’s body and there was distance between them to breathe out harshly a few times before rolling to the side and reaching to entangle his hand in Castiel’s.

“I can’t.”

Castiel swallowed carefully and squeezed his fingers around Dean’s lightly, and said breathlessly: “That’s... that’s alright. I don’t mind. Whatever... whatever you want”

He let his fingers fold and roll into Dean’s, so that they were entwined and their knuckles brushed against one another as they found a comfortable spot. Dean’s eyes flickered upwards to Castiel’s and he shook his head lightly. “I... I want to, Cas. But... I don’t want to be the one... I don’t want to be bedding you.”

He watched Castiel carefully for a few moments, and Castiel reciprocated only with a careful tilt of his head, portraying his confusion with Dean’s tone and word choice. Dean swallowed, a little frustration hinted at by the speed of it, before he murmured: “It’s... it’s gonna hurt and... if this is gonna be the only time we get to... I want you to like it, Cas. I want you to feel it how it’s meant to be.”

Their hands turned between them, Dean’s thumb running cautiously over Castiel’s knuckles and his body trembling a little as he lay above Castiel. Castiel smiled slowly and leaned upwards , pressing and peeling his lips off Dean’s. Dean took the kiss as assent, and caught Castiel’s lips with his open mouth. Castiel reached forward and used a grip on the back of Dean’s neck to push forwards into the kiss, letting his tongue twist with Dean’s , and reveling in the nervous quickening of the pulse at Dean’s neck. He took his lips there and used the awkwardness of the position for both of them to slowly turn Dean over and lay him back down in the nest. At his back, his wings jostled a few times, dislodging the discomfort that had occurred from him lying on them. Dean pupils blasted outwards at the sight, and he reached upwards clumsily to card his fingers through the feathers messily.

“L-love you, Cas.”

Castiel bent down and pressed his lips to Dean in a chaste kiss, pouring his echo of the sentiment into Dean. The emotion in it seemed to stagger Dean’s body, and his chest arched upwards beneath Castiel’s, as though his heart would beat out of his chest in its struggle to reach for his partner’s. When Dean’s breath caught in his throat and he slumped back down, Castiel followed him, keeping their lips pressed together, but allowing his mouth to open and his tongue to lick at the shape of Dean’s lips. He let his hands roam the planes of Dean’s chest, feeling out the form of Dean below him rather than the skin, but Dean hissed quietly as, in doing so, he grazed sensitive points of skin at the sides of his ribcage and his nipples.

Dean’s hands stayed tangled in his wings, winding up the muscles of Castiel’s back until they found their anchor. Beneath his hands, the muscles at the joint twitched and spasmed until it seemed like Castiel’s whole wing was quivering beneath Dean’s touch – utterly overwhelmed, directionless, and desperate for more.

The shivers had spread throughout Castiel’s entire body by the time Dean wrenched one of Castiel’s hands from his side and lead it down to between his legs, pulling it up behind his balls and letting it graze the skin there. Upon contact, they both seemed equally lost as to the next move, and paused uncertainly there, with Castiel’s fingers brushing in and out of contact with the skin in tiny, light moments of contact that made Dean twitch and his breathing erratic.

“I’m not sure what to do, Dean.”

Dean swallowed carefully and nodded in understanding, and his mouth dropped open as he leaned upwards, using the inner muscles of his neck to watch Castiel’s forearm as he attempted to brush his fingers past Dean and elicit some indication of his pleasure.

“I think we need something to... to help it. The women... in the brothels”, Dean swallowed around the words embarrassedly, “they have an oil that...”

Castiel’s finger brushed past the entrance briefly and Dean’s chest pulsed with something that seemed to be a mixture between anticipation and fear. “I’ll get something. One moment.”

“Yeah. Yeah. That’d be good.” Dean exhaled quietly and seemingly in relief at the momentary reprieve he would obtain from performing the task and lay backwards on the pillow, twisting lightly with a phantom sensation that Castiel hoped was a burst of pleasure in anticipation, or at least in the touch of Dean’s own hand on his cock.

Castiel withdrew  carefully from Dean and shuffled quietly across the cottage until he reached his stores. He found a small bottle of oil in the cooking supplies and murmured a description of the substance to Dean, who conceded a timid: “yeah”, before gasping quietly. As he made his way back across the room, Dean shuffled off the nest and mumbled that there was something he needed to do quickly without meeting Castiel’s eyes, before creeping out to the stables. Castiel returned to the nest and waited quietly, twisting the bottle nervously between his hands and fingering the amulet, still hanging from his neck.

Dean stumbled back into the room quietly a few minutes later, and made a beeline for the nest, sliding to his knees and pulling Castiel into a fearsome kiss. “I’m ready, Cas. I want this.”

He fell backwards and pulled Castiel with him, spreading his legs and allowing Castiel to fall between them, and align them for a few soft and careful rolls of their hips before he pushed Castiel backwards and murmured breathlessly, “now Cas.”

Castiel acquiesced, but slower than Dean seemed prepared to wait. He kissed his way down Dean’s neck first, then across his clavicle, and then down between his pectorals and to his sternum. When he reached Dean’s hips, he trailed his lips there lightly, until Dean was stirring beneath him, and used the distraction to bring an oiled finger to Dean’s  entrance, pressing lightly enough to make his presence known, and test Dean’s resolve.

Dean exhaled in a quick breath of surprise and stiffened a little at the touch, but swallowed quickly and moved his hand to rest at the nape of Castiel’s neck, squeezing reassuringly. “It’s good. You’re good, Cas.”

Castiel traced lightly more, until Dean reached down again and pressed Castiel’s hand tighter to the spot. “You need to... you need to stretch it a bit.”

Castiel nodded carefully against Dean’s hip and continued, pressing a little lighter so that the tip of his finger felt the slight give of Dean beneath him. He followed the path, and Dean hissed and clenched in response. Castiel winced at the rebellion and made to pull away, but Dean clutched tight at his wrist. “It’ll... I think it’ll take a little getting used to. I can do this, Cas. Don’t worry.”

The clench of his voice around his words betrayed otherwise, but Dean’s expression was earnest, and seeing him momentarily deprived of the worser kind of fear that had so imbued them earlier, in the face of this act, so much smaller in comparison, was enough to motivate him to continue.

Castiel scarcely felt any less concern, but he did what he could and kept the touches tight and tender, until Dean’s body eventually conceded the intrusion. It felt like an hour until Dean affirmed with a meek and scratchy gasp that he thought he was ready. Over that time, Castiel lathed in with touches of his mouth and tongue until his mouth felt dry from the care, and when Dean’s body seemed ready to repel him, he brought him to climax with his hand as slowly and as tenderly as he could to obfuscate the pain as long as possible. The effort did nothing to dispel his own nerves, and Dean still seemed highly strung for the entirety, stifling small groans and breathing heavily in a way that betrayed the fact he was working against instinct to allow Castiel to act as he did.

But every time he made to withdraw, or whispered to Dean that he would not mind a last night together of soft touches and brief kisses, Dean gritted his teeth, flushed red, and growled that he _wanted this_ , he wanted to do this for Cas, and that if Cas had no other objections to shut up and get on with it.

Dean tried to reciprocate touches to Castiel for the duration – a few loose holds around his cock and grazes to his chest. But managing the unfamiliar sensation, coupled with a kind of determined anger that flashed in his eyes every time he looked at Castel was enough to distract him from performing it properly. And while any touch of Dean’s, no matter how skillfully given or how many times endured, still had Castiel’s soul brimming beneath his skin, he eventually pushed Dean away entangled their free hands together and squeezing tightly.

When Dean swore he was ready, Castiel withdrew nervously and looked down at his handiwork. Dean nervously squeezed his legs together, seemingly in embarrassment, and Castiel placed a calming hand on his knee and rubbed lightly, until Dean saw fit to let them drop open again. But his eyes were fixed on Castiel’s and his mouth was open in an aborted sentence, and the sight made clear he was still in need of reassurance.

To provide it, Castiel reached forward and subjected Dean to the deepest and most desperate kisses they had ever shared. By the time they were done, and Dean’s hand had wormed its way between them to revive Castiel, their bodies were both trembling with the violence of the coiled emotion that had unwoven itself between them. It wasn’t the love that consumed them at that moment – that hummed there consistently, filling silence with music and emptiness with warmth, and even when they were apart, Castiel felt it all the same enlivening the air in the distance between them and safeguarding his dreams. But, pressed together and shaking that love was eclipsed by something rawer as they kissed, teeth clicking together and neither minding as they wound extraneous limbs around one another and squeezed as hard as they could, as though their skin could meld. For Castiel, it made his body spasm in sharp burst whenever Dean’s fingers grazed his cheek, or ran across the base of his spine. And for Dean, it manifested in three beads of tears that fell down his cheek and descended into their anxious mouths, filtering the taste of liquorice with a mild salty flavor and another still of desperation.

Castiel didn’t feel able to speak by the time Dean pushed him away and made to roll over onto his stomach. Castiel stopped him with a hand to the shoulder, and plead silently that there was some way they could stay facing one another. Dean bit his lip and considered, before nodding: “Try... try this way first, Cas. I’ll see how it feels.”

Castiel nodded and Dean brought their noses together, trailing his side to side across Castiel’s, before raising his lips to kiss his forehead and turning away. Castiel supported him back down into the nest, although he scarcely needed the assistance, bearing himself down carefully and raising his hips behind him. Castiel trailed his fingers lightly up and down Dean’s spine while Dean pressed himself against the nest, and nestled his head into the furs, finding purchase with his forehead pressed there.

He made to return with nervous fingers – to test Dean’s comfort - but Dean growled a quiet: “Just do it, Cas”, and Castiel obliged with shaking, stuttering hips, pausing for a long time at Dean’s entrance and shuffling to find the right positioning, where he felt best situated to monitor Dean. Dean groaned openly when Castiel breached him, and his fingers wound into the sheets, clenching tight enough that his forearms quivered with the effort. The rest of his body clenched too, and Castiel froze in his movements, arms winding forwards and around Dean’s waist to stroke the skin above Dean’s heart. It pounded beneath the touch desperately, as though pleading with Castiel for release. Castiel traced his fingers in circles over it, taming it as though he would a trapped wild animal. As the seconds passed, while its pace scarcely slowed it seemed to establish itself at that ferocity and pursued it determinedly, as its master pursued Castiel’s pleasure at the expense of his own.

Dean breathed harshly a few times before nodding silently and Castiel pressed forward again almost immediately to spare him the agony of a nervous wait. Dean’s resistance made it a little painful for him too, though the way Dean stuttered beneath him in grunts and hisses suggested he felt the sensation far more acutely, and he mashed his face further into the furs – clearly determined to stifle the sound from Castiel. The muscles in his back danced of their own accord, maneuvering and re-imagining themselves in light of an intrusion from outside as though Castiel were touching every part of him at once.

Castiel stopped a third time when he bottomed out, and Dean raised his head, breathing through carefully pursed lips. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, Cas. Just go slow.”

Castiel leaned forward as best he could and laid kisses onto the bulbs of Dean’s spine: “I will. I love you”. The physicality of the moment was overwhelming, and where the usual hum of delight overcame him at any kiss to Dean’s skin, Castiel was only too aware of the sticky, human aspect of the kisses as his left a trail of saliva across Dean’s back. It was different, but not unwelcome, though some part of Castiel ached for the familiarity of Dean’s face and the comfort of a quiet hold beneath the stars.

Dean murmured the same into the furs and shuffled lightly, bracing himself for the next movement and clenching his muscles in a determination to relax.

It was hard to feel the pleasure when Dean was in pain. Castiel was aware of a throb at his core, and the sensation of heat and tightness which seemed to squeeze the feeling of arousal from his cock throughout the rest of his body, so that he felt coiled tight with it. But the sensation passed in and out as Dean adjusted beneath him, and made muffled noises of complaint. He withdrew as a test, and it seemed to give Dean momentary relief, although his body tensed again at the unfamiliar sensation of Castiel’s withdrawal.

The second thrust was easier, and he felt more when Dean managed to bear the pressure and drop his head silently onto the furs.

Dean adjusted beneath him and moved a hand behind him, searching frantically for Castiel’s until Castiel reached down and took hold. The tight grip seemed to ease him more, and Castiel made an experiment of the third stroke, moving slightly faster and pressing less hesitantly against Dean. Dean’s hand tightened around Castiel’s, but his grip was determined, and he ran his thumb over Castiel’s knuckles in an obvious reassurance, despite his heavy breaths through his nose into the furs.

Castiel leaned forward again to offer him more kisses, and brought their joined hands to Dean’s cock, using his to exact the crucial touch, and leaving Dean’s encased around his. The distraction gave Dean some release, and he seemed to forget his predicament momentarily, even going so far as to press slightly backwards onto Castiel but freezing when the pressure seemed to prove too much.

For Castiel it was Dean, first and foremost. Only in the brief reprieves where Dean’s gasps turned from irritation to pleasure could he sense his own satisfaction at all. Otherwise, his eyes searched with care over Dean’s form, discerning anxiously for lines of tension in the muscles, or too strong a quiver in his joints that indicated he was suppressing his will. Dean bore the intrusion willingly though, and with an anxious care that Castiel should remain unaware of the fact. Any hint of discomfort was hidden with a quick and careful veneer, so that any glimpse Castiel caught of the truth of Dean’s endurance was smothered before he could act on it.

But Castiel’s eyes were fixed on every slight inflection of Dean’s body, for any chance of a reveal or betrayal of reluctance. He caught that shiver a few thrusts later and immediately withdrew, before leaning back over Dean and nuzzling his back.

“Cas, why did you stop? I-“

“Dean, I don’t need this. Just you.”

Dean grunted and rolled over beneath Castiel, who kept his arms around Dean in brackets, holding his upper body away from him, and letting his knees take the rest of the weight. When Dean was adjusted, he spread his legs and pulled Castiel down to his chest, burrowing his nose into Castiel’s hairline behind his ear and inhaling carefully.

“I need you, please.”

He pulled his legs up Castiel’s sides and reached between them, finding Castiel’s cock and giving it a few quick tugs before re-positioning it between them and grabbing Castiel’s hips deliberately. “C’mon, Cas. It always hurts the first time. I want it anyway. Come on”

He pulled Castiel’s hips forward slowly, although he made no indent until Castiel obliged him by offering traction from his own. Dean sighed lightly as Castiel breached him again and let his head drop back into the furs, gulping and murmuring: “It’s not... it’s not really so bad as... keep going.”

Castiel kept things soft and shallow, and Dean didn’t press for more, although once, when Castiel adjusted and the pressure he exerted drove him forward a little farther, Dean gasped with a shot of genuine elation and grabbed Castiel hips and wound his legs tighter around his upper back.

“You’re doing so good, Cas. You’re amazing.”

Dean’s eyes were wide and his voice cracked with genuine honesty, as he reached up to kiss Castiel’s bare chest. Castiel took the encouragement and used it to allow the movements of his hips to become more languid, rather than stuttered and nervous, and lose himself for a moment in the rising tide. Even when the extra force made Dean wince, he brought his fingers to Castiel’s face and gazed on him in utter satisfaction: “God. God, Cas. I’ve never-“ He gasped out of the sentence as Castiel thrust a little harder, but he let his hips relax into the pace and ground out: “Do it. Come on.”

He was biting his lip in an effort not to cry out when the physical sensations of his body took Castiel from the moment, and he spat out a cry as his hips crashed forward of their own accord, colliding with Dean’s painfully. Dean’s body clamped again with the foreign sensation of Castiel coming inside of him, and his eyes scrunched shut, even as he reached forward to find Castiel’s lips and wind his fingers into his hair.

“I love you... you’re mine... you’re mine.”

Dean scrabbled as Castiel reached between them and brought him to completion, with quick, anxious strokes that seemed to pale in light of the fact that he and Dean remained joined at the hips and Dean still trembled visibly beneath him. It was more a release than a reverie when Dean came in a too hot burst against Castiel’s hand, and he let his head fall back and his eyes close, murmuring words that Castiel barely had the comprehension to discern in light of his sudden realization that he had just experienced his last opportunity to share pleasure with Dean.

The thought had him falling forwards onto Dean, and then to his side, clutching at him tightly and awkwardly pulling away from him so that he could exit Dean and hold him tighter and at a more natural angle. Dean made no sound at the pain of withdrawal, instead scrambling to meet Castiel with a strong grip to the flesh of his biceps and pressing his face to Castiel’s skin, inhaling the scent of their sweat and skin mixed together. Dean’s mouth pealed open against Castiel’s flesh in a silent cry as he pulled himself closer, and his teeth grazed it as he bit forward to restrain himself.

Castiel mimicked the sentiment, turning his face into Dean’s hair and huffing out every sense of betrayal he had felt towards his Father, made exponentially worse by the fact, after all he had endured, that Dean – his Father’s creation that he had loved as his Father wished – would now be taken from him, and back to the City and into a marriage he could not bear. Even the firm planes of Dean’s muscles, sculpted through years of drudgerous training and adventure melted beneath his hold, and Dean wound himself closer and closer, and his body seemed to go limp in Castiel’s hold as he howled out shaking breaths above Castiel’s heart.

Castiel let him the time to expel himself of the concerns, and when Dean seemed more amenable to his encouragement, he whispered in his ear that tonight was _their night_ and he wished to award Dean everything he would have given him in the future, had it not been for Lilith. “Send her away from here, Dean. I love you, and I want to show you. Stay with me.”

Dean calmed in the next hour, and allowed Castiel to kiss him again, worshipping his body with soft presses and trails. Dean’s body quaked with genuine pleasure this time, and Castiel lost himself to the task, clutching tightly at the familiar beads of warmth that slowly flooded his body, lighting it from the inside, until he felt aglow with candlelight in the gentle darkness of the cabin. No part of Dean was abandoned from his quest, even when Dean protested embarrassment, Castiel smothered his skin with promises until Dean was curling beneath him, distracted from his grief with desire. When Castiel kissed Dean’s cock, Dean shuddered as hard as Castiel had ever seen. And, although Dean protested that “there’s no need”, he allowed Castiel to continue when he showed no sign of stopping – letting small kisses turn to licks and grazes of teeth, and a few nervous suckles on the crown, seeking out better and better reactions. Dean seemed to be familiar with the act Castiel was performing, but he refused to offer Castiel guidance, instead only breathing out: “Cas, it’s perfect” and writhing beneath him slowly. He brought his hand to Castiel’s hair and twisted his fingers there, trailing his fingers across every part of Castiel’s face and sighing lightly when Castiel left his cock for a moment to press kisses to each and every finger or knuckle, and every line of his palm.

When Castiel returned to him, stroking lightly with his fist and leaving further kisses, Dean’s hips began to stutter and he reached down and brought Castiel back to him hurriedly, murmuring in warning: “I’m gonna... Cas, get off.”

Castiel moved away, but Dean let him continue the strokes of his fist until his core pulsed and a few moments later his pleasure was written across the planes of his stomach. Dean lay back, chest heaving and hand still entangled in Castiel’s hair, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, eyes shaking with a film of tears and lips trembling with pleasure. When Dean eventually conceded to let go of him, Castiel retrieved a pail of water and a rag, and proceeded to clean Dean carefully, across his chest and down beneath him where the marks of their encounter were emerging. He was in evident pain when Castiel reached that stage, but kissed him through the duration and stroked Castiel’s skin with glorious rapture.

They lay for a long time, foreheads pressed against one another’s, and noses touching, until Dean murmured nervously that he could return the favor, if Castiel wished. There was obvious reluctance in his voice, and Castiel shook his head lightly and kissed Dean softly, even though it was mild and he was sure Dean would have if he had asked: “You have done enough for me. You have done too much for me.”

He persuaded Dean to roll over with soft touches, and sat astride his buttocks – although supporting his own weight carefully when Dean stiffened worriedly, perhaps anticipating a repeat of their earlier activity in a sensitive area. Dean was tense until he felt the touch of Castiel’s hands smoothing over the planes of his back and worrying at the kinks and spasms that reigned it, and at that point he smothered a sob in the rags. Castiel used the oil that still remained uncorked at their sides to work his fingers deeper into the skin, and to moisturize its surface, until all of Dean was pliant beneath him. The act had the desired effect, and Dean eventually fell asleep beneath the touch, during which time Castiel extricated himself and performed a perfunctory clean of himself in the corner of the cottage, peering out through the boarded windows and checking for observers in the forest.

When he felt safe, he lowered himself in the corner, and allowed the tears he had restrained earlier for Dean’s benefit, their moment. But they fell in far larger numbers than he had imagined, until he felt wrinkled and drained dry by their efforts, and had not the water left to lick his lips to abate the dryness.

He didn’t hear Dean wake, though he did hear the pad of his feet across the cottage, and felt the touch of his shaking hands to his cheeks. Dean lead him back to the nest with kisses and endearments, and brought Castiel to his chest, stroking his hair carefully and letting him rest on top of his own heartbeat.

“You need to rest, Cas.”

Castiel shook his head and pressed a kiss to Dean’s pectoral, before falling back into silence, but for the almost indiscernible sound of the trace of his finger across Dean’s chest as he mapped out every indent of muscle.

“Was it quiet out there? Anyone watching?”

Castiel nodded and rasped: “Empty.”

Dean jostled beneath him and wound his arms tighter around Castiel.

“It’ll be dawn soon. They’ll have cleared off, even if they were there.”

Castiel didn’t respond, but to nestle closer to Dean and kiss his chest again, with a reverence that he felt he’d never displayed for another before, even his Father.

Dean let him continue, murmuring lightly: “I’d... I’d kind of like to go out there, if you’d... if it’s not too much for you?”

Castiel paused momentarily before raising his head and meeting Dean in the eyes, biting his lip a little nervously. “You would?”

Dean nodded lightly, voice husky. “Yeah. Just... last time we sat outside and watched... it was one of the best nights of my life. Almost all the best nights have been out there, with you. I don’t want this one to be any different – us huddling in here, scared and crying.”

He reached out to Castiel and ran his thumb down his cheek, tracing beneath the eyeball.

“I want it to end the way it started. Come full circle, you know?”

They stared at one another for a long while, until Castiel leaned forward and nodded his assent into Dean’s lips. Dean made them both stand after that, and he sought out Castiel some fresh clothes from his stores. He dressed Castiel himself, and allowed his fingers to trace over Castiel’s skin as he did so – in what Castiel soon realised was a farewell, for Dean clearly had no intention of removing them again.

As such, when he was done, Castiel did the same for Dean, though he used his lips far more to imprint the trace of himself into Dean’s skin, to follow him after he left the cottage. When the last lace was done, he and Dean surged forward, tangling their tongues together and squashing their noses as they tried to impart their hearts to one another through the contact. When they were both breathing heavily, not with arousal, but with the satisfaction of a battle well won, Dean slid his hand into Castiel’s shirt and extracted the amulet that hung there, planting a soft kiss on its bronze face before replacing it.

“Whenever anyone talks of my wedding, Cas. I’m going to think of this. Not her.”

He kissed Castiel once on the lips again and murmured: “You have my heart, forever. My soul, my mind. Anything you could want – you have, even if I’m not here with you.””

They waited out the rest of the night huddled beneath a fur on the steps of Castiel’s cottage. Whatever possessed his brothers and sisters, it seemed that they acted in deference to the last moments Dean and Castiel were to share, for the sky was entirely silent, except for the faint brush of wind through the treetops, and the settling of the earth beneath them.

Dean wound their fingers together, and leaned his temple against Castiel’s, but he made no further move to initiate a touch, except for a few nuzzles to Castiel’s cheek when Dean thought he was sleeping.

When dawn broke, the y looked at one another once, and leaned forward in a final, sealed kiss that already felt hollow. Dean stood slowly, and brushed himself off, squeezing Castiel’s fingers once before he departed.

There was little to prepare, for Dean had only just arrived, and despite his protests of staying, he had scarcely unpacked. Still, there was ten minutes work or so to do, and Castiel took the time to prepare Dean a small meal to travel with, bringing it to him in the stable, and farewelling the mare while Dean stowed it in his saddlebag, and brushed determinedly at his eyes. When Dean lead his mare out into the clearing, he showed Castiel where he had stowed his blade, and let his fingers trace lightly over Castiel’s when he raised his hand to touch it, and farewell it.

There was no question that Castiel would follow Dean, for Dean’s eyes were nervous as he watched the sky, and his sword was loosely sheathed for ready use. Even if that weren’t clear enough, he left Castiel standing on the foot of the stairs to his cottage, with wide eyes and clenched fists.

Dean mounted his mare in silence and turned her to face them, eyes downcast and shoulders tense as he swallowed around whatever words he intended to say in farewell.

“This is it, Cas?”

Castiel nodded softly and wrung his hands together before him, being the only parts of his body that he was convinced were not numb yet with the ceremony they were performing.

“It is.”

Dean blinked harshly and swallowed again, glowering from atop Impala.

“What are you going to do?”

Castiel looked out at the clearing, towards the mountains. “I’m not sure. It may behoove me to leave this place for some time, and wait for things to quiet. Your leadership will do that, I am certain.”

Dean gnawed at his lip, and ignored a tear that fell from his right eye, staring stoically forward as though it were a military instruction.

“Will it be safer?”

“I think so.”

Dean nodded quickly in understanding, and in an effort to restrain himself from emitting emotion further. Castiel ached to reach out to him – to wipe away the tears and to kiss away the worry, but it was beyond him now to do so, and they both knew it between them.

“You’ll... you’ll take care of yourself then?”

“I will. Will you do the same?”

“Yes... Damnit Cas.”

Dean slid from Impala with the grace of a child at his first riding lesson, and rushed forward to Castiel, who had his lips ready when Dean crushed his against them, breathing harshly and squeezing their features against the others.

“How am I supposed to say goodbye to you?”

Castiel felt wordless in response, and instead relayed his message through a long lingering kiss, that chastened Dean’s and wrenched he desire from his touch: “your people. You love them too.” Dean absorbed the meaning with clarity, and pulled away from Castiel nodding heavily.

Castiel caught him by the hand as he made to turn. “Dean, wait.”

Dean whirled so sharply that he almost knocked Castiel off the step, as though he genuinely believed that in that final moment Castiel had worked a way out of their circumstance, and stepped back into his space, raising his palms to Castiel’s cheeks.

“I-I wish to... there is one more thing I would do, if you would let me.”

Dean sighed and dropped his forehead to rest against Castiel’s, letting their noses rub together softly, and closing his eyes: “anything Cas. Anything you want.”

Castiel nodded lightly and extended a hand to Dean’s chest, worming his way in between the laces to find a bare point of skin in the vicinity of Dean’s beating heart. In careful concentration, so as not to exert himself too carefully, he pressed at his core and prodded it, until his weak and tired Grace responded with a hollow sound of assent.

“Close your eyes, Dean. And please, you must keep them closed.”

Dean’s green eyes searched his once, before he obliged, ducking his head to remove the temptation of sighting a sliver of Castiel through the gap, and pressing his lips together.

When Castiel was certain Dean was obedient, he forced his Grace upwards through his veins, until it reached Castiel’s own closed eyes, and he forced it to bleed over his eyeballs, coating them in a thin veil of their substance.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

Dean nodded once but otherwise stayed immovable, as Castiel opened his own and stared.

It had been centuries since he had seen a soul. Wanton use of Grace had to be carefully monitored, and one of the first lessons Castiel had learned was to use his eyes as humans did, and not see beyond the superficial. Souls had always been a marvel to him, even when they were commonplace. They were inspired by more than his Father’s touch, he considered – a particular wild beauty possessed them that left them untamed and unchecked. They were volatile, certainly, and prone to abandoning his Father’s message, diverging and aching for freedom above all else. But that, perhaps, that animation that set them apart from their Creator, was what inspired Castiel the most as their audience. They each were novel, unique and energetic – desperate to carve out their own path, to discern, to desire even if so much were pre-written for them.

He had seen the souls of Pharaohs, Emperors, warriors, mothers, children, servants of God, monsters and many beyond. He had appraised the cleanest and the brightest as a tourist of his Father’s creation, as many Angels did, as a path to worship. He had collected the experience of souls as humans hoarded wealth, power, and possessions, and stored them within himself as inspiration for admiration of his Father. And he had treasured each and every memory of every soul he had encountered.

They all paled in comparison to Dean’s. Dean imagined himself unclean – punctured with holes and diseases of vices, and aching tiredness of one having aged too young and borne far too much for his people. Castiel could not deny, that was written in his soul – in the way the tendrils of divinity wound around it – holding it together and concentrating its energy. There was wariness in it, and anxiety for the marks of other souls that remained there.  A dark brown, peaceful spot that must have been Sam’s, a yellowing, tired looking spot that must have been Bobby’s, two entwined marks of red and bright green for Garth and Jo, and a small grey, uncertain spot for his nephew, which pulsed with the mark of its growing, spreading across Dean’s soul and taking life force from it. There were others too, that Castiel did not recognize, and they almost obscured the surface of Dean’s soul – amassing it in color and light, hiding beneath them Dean’s true essence.

There was a hollow area, the largest of all, where Castiel imagined he had taken root – although there was no mark of a soul, his having none. But his ownership of the area was clear, for the dark green tendrils of Dean’s soul crowded the empty space there and constricted it, as though it could pull the space into its core and cradle it there. Castiel appraised the spot for a moment before he reached forward carefully with Grace, depositing a miniscule shard into the spot. It was like ink in water, curling through the space with a liquid the color of the sky and spreading there, in the home already made for it. Dean shuddered as the tendrils of his soul reached forward and made contact with the Grace, but remained silent as per Castiel’s instructions.

Castiel searched the surface of Dean’s soul further, noting the small parts that were visible on its surface – the few parts of himself that Dean had held back for himself alone. They were dark, somehow the same color as Dean’s eyes, but far darker and deeper. At the edges of Castiel’s mark, the color changed a little, where Dean’s soul reached forward and bled with the blue of Castiel’s Grace, cementing its place across its surface forever.

Even though its color was deep, the soul was bright, and riveting – with a smooth surface a hundred-million times softer than any silk, and with a sheen that Castiel had never seen – of such brightness and valiance that it was almost angelic in its quality. It he hadn’t known better, he would have said Dean could have been of Angelic origin – a nephilim imbued with a humanized Grace. There was none that could compare.

Dean’s soul was pure humanity though – rough and turgid and exhausted in some places from the efforts of living. Small, ragged edges blew softly at its edges, where life had torn parts away. But the soul had repaired itself valiantly, soothing each wear with energy and determination. Beneath the few bruises and aches that it had been unable to dismiss, it was still vibrant and singing.

Castiel reached forward further, not with a drop of Grace this time, but with a trace of it, and he ran it down like a paintbrush, over the wounds that he himself had inflicted – with his departure, with his injury, with his absences and his inability to return to the City with Dean or absolve him of the burden which now fell upon him. With a tender touch, and a transparent glaze, he cleaned and polished those bruises he had left behind, until they glowed a vibrant blue beneath his touch, and seemed a network of healthy veins across Dean’s soul rather than cracks of effort and hurt.

Dean’s breathing stopped as he finished his work, and opposite him, Dean shook with restrained effort at remaining conscious for the contact. As he made to withdraw, Dean soul reached forward aggressively and wound around Castiel’s Grace, seeking out its contents actively, rather than merely allowing its presence, and clawing it towards him. Castiel fought enough that Dean’s soul was prevented from doing what it desired, and joining them, but not enough so that he was wrenched away from Dean’s grip until he was ready, and Dean’s soul, realizing this, crowded him and encased him with its warm, foresty scent, soothing his own aches as best it could.

“Cas. Cas. Oh my God.”

He heard the words in Dean’s heart, rather than his mouth, and he repeated them back to Dean, laced with his own elation at this last joining – this last moment of togetherness that they could share over and above whatever Dean would have with Lilith. There was pain and suffocating despair in Dean’s soul, but it was hidden far below its surface, for every part in contact with Castiel’s grace sung with thankfulness at the moment, and the supernaturally intense sensation of romantic ecstasy that accompanied it.

It was that ecstasy that kept Castiel holding on for far longer than he should, nurturing and cherishing this last bask in the glow of Dean. It was too long though, and Dean’s soul that realized first, freezing around Castiel and attempting to push him away. Dean’s thoughts suddenly turned urgent and focused: “Cas. Help. Get off. I can’t-“

Castiel went weak and limp in the contact, and his Grace flickered and fizzled in its protective cocoon of Dean’s soul. Dean’s soul recoiled at once, and pushed it backwards, and in their bodies, Dean’s hands came to his chest and pushed Castiel’s hand away, severing the contact immediately, and heaving Castiel back against the stairs.

Dean’s physical force was too strong, and Castiel cracked his head against the floor of his cottage. A second later, Dean was above him, shaking his face in his hands and crying out, loud enough for anyone within a mile to hear: “Cas! CAS!”

He revived through a haze of pain and an ache at his Grace that throbbed like he had never felt before. But it felt familiar, from the descriptions of his brothers and sisters had foretold when their bodies began to break and the disease took hold – the beginning of the end. Things felt slow, and human, as his eyes readjusted to his surroundings, and his hearing processed the sound of Dean’s frantic cries just beyond him as he was pulled up and pressed against Dean’s chest.

Dean’s tears littered his face by the time he had the energy to open his eyes properly, and Dean clutched him close anxiously, crying: “Cas, please don’t... please don’t turn. Please. Please.”

“I’m alright, Dean. I’m not turning. Not yet.”

Only half the words made their way through his dry mouth and resulted in an abstract croak, and Dean left his side for a few moments to retrieve his water sack from Impala, before emptying half its contents down Castiel’s throat. Castiel choked on the intrusion, and Dean seemed torn between a fit of rage and utter desperation, as he quickly ran his hands over Castiel’s neck, locating his pulse and counting out in a whisper.

When he seemed satisfied that it had sufficiently slowed, he grabbed Castiel around the face and growled:

“What the hell was that?”

“I lost control. I’m sorry.”

“Damn right, you’re sorry! I-“

Dean met his eyes and plunged towards Castiel to press a bruising kiss to his lips, before withdrawing and whispering hastily. “You’re staying. You’re staying right here. I won’t let you become one of them.”

Castiel nodded against Dean’s temple and allowed Dean to pull him upwards and prop him against the doorframe. His hands quickly checked the rest of Castiel’s body for wounds. There were none, of course, though his limbs were limp in Dean’s hands and Dean trembled as he rubbed at them vigorously, attempting to restore animation, which seemed gone in their sudden cold state.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to... you’re so beautiful, Dean. I couldn’t help-“

“It’s done now. We can’t take it back. Just lie still.”

Dean moved to Castiel’s feet, and pulled off his boots hastily, rubbing vigorously at the skin and muscles and massaging the frozen toes. He kept going until Castiel’s foot twitched beneath his touch, and then he pressed it to his own hip, leaning over to trap it between the warmth of his thigh and stomach before moving to work on the other one hastily, eyes fixed on his task.

“Dean. You can’t stay. You need to get back.”

Dean nodded grimly, but continued on his task as though the words were unrelated. “I know.”

He moved his hands to Castiel’s legs and rubbed there too, and then to his biceps and forearms, sandwiching Castiel’s hands in his armpits for warmth. “Cas, you have to keep fighting. You know that?”

Castiel nodded silently and let his head fall back against the doorframe as the coolness reinstalled itself in his chest and Dean moved his hands there to rub anxiously above Castiel’s heart.

“Look, I’m gonna find a way to make sure someone gets out here and sees you. I’ll come myself if I have to. Somehow, Cas, I’m gonna keep an eye on you. I’m not leaving you. Not ever. Not completely. You understand?”

Castiel nodded again and let his eyes close as he lay back, caught in the sudden rush of an odd sensation that he was swimming through the conversation.

“Some of the men. I’ll be able to trust them. I’m sure of it. And Jo, even. Once the Roads are safe again, I’m sure she’d love to ride out here. She’s always wanted to. She and Garth, they could come. Bring you food and supplies. Keep an eye on you for me, as long as you’re here.”

He rubbed more carefully at Castiel’s neck and cheeks, bringing color back to them. “They’ll keep you company. I can write to you. Once there’s an heir, maybe I’ll be a little freer. I can come see you in that shelter by the castle, you understand?”

When Castiel was a little silent, Dean leaned forward and kissed him lightly, sucking on his lips until color returned there too.

“I promise, Cas. And now you have to promise me. Come on.”

He kissed Castiel again and ceased his rubbing to cradle his cheeks in his hand. “Promise me you’ll be alright. I felt it, Cas. You’re only a little tired. There’s way more fight in you yet. You know that?”

Castiel opened his eyes blearily, and assented with a kiss to Dean’s lips and a gravelly promise. Dean huffed out a small cry. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Everything is going to be alright.”

…

Dean cradled Castiel in the doorway until mid-morning, when his energy restored and he was able to stand on his own. Once he had righted himself, holding onto the doorframe for support, and trying to hide the fact from Dean that his standing alone had induced a wave of nausea, Dean’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly and his eyes flickered anxiously between the still-saddled Impala, and to Castiel’s shaking knees.

“You have to go, Dean. This can’t change anything.”

“I know.” Dean stepped forward and pulled Castiel into a careful embrace, inhaling quietly into his hair. “You going to be alright if I leave you now? Or do I need to stay a little longer?”

“You need to make it back to the City as soon as possible. We cannot delay any longer.”

Dean shook his head against Castiel’s: “Not ‘till I’m sure you’re set up.”

Castiel let Dean lead him into his nest, and tuck him in as though he were a child. Dean went about the task as though Castiel were recovering from a mild headache, and not a symptom of his destruction. He folded the furs around him in a perfect cocoon, and then leaned forward, keeping their eyes fixed. “Just rest this afternoon, Cas. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

Dean chuckled lightly and smoothed his hair back, eyes dashing across his face backwards and forth as though he were memorizing a puzzle as fast as he could. “I doubt that. But I know you can take care of yourself.”

Dean paused for a moment, swallowing carefully, before letting his hand run down Castiel’s cheek and across his lips, once, feather-light, before he pulled away quickly. “I’ll... I’ll be thinking of you, Cas. Take care.”

“You too. I love you.”

Dean winced at the words, but a smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he sunk back into Castiel to place a kiss on his lips. “I love you too. And I’m glad I met you, even if this is the way it ends.”

When he pulled back, he and Castiel watched one another for a long moment that might have been a hundred, and while Dean’s eyes held back tears this time, it was as though Castiel could feel them raining down on his body anyway, until it was numb and still, almost as in death, beneath the furs.

Eventually, Dean dropped his gaze to Castiel’s chest and he sighed carefully. He didn’t look at Castiel again. Slowly, he rose and turned away to make his way out the cottage quickly, as though he were merely leaving to fetch something from outside and his return would be forthcoming. Outside though, Castiel heard the jingle of metal against leather that marked Dean’s mounting his mare and the click of his tongue as he urged her forward. His eyes watched the sliver of the outdoors that he could see through the doorframe, and he saw the mare quickly pass in front of it as Dean kicked her into a gallop. He listened long past the sound of her hoofbeats fading into the forest, even the phantom sound that rung in his ears when she was long since gone, and until the only sound that remained was the chorus of birds in the trees, whose melodies swelled over the well of Castiel’s tears as he stared beyond the door in farewell.

 

 


	25. Is Only This

** CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR **

** 1425 **

Bobby was grim when he opened the Gates for Dean upon his arrival back to Ardus. He met him with a quick clap of a hug, and muttered: “you’ll want to wash first, boy”, before pulling back and officiously instructing one of his apprentices to take Dean’s mare and water her down.

Clearly, he sent for Lydia too, for she turned up at his cottage with a black shirt laced with gold, which she said Balthazar had left for him to borrow in the event of his return. She’d cleaned and pressed it for him herself, she said, having free time now in having fallen from the Princess’ good graces.

“Jo told me that she’s accepted Garth’s explanations for your absence, at least superficially. You should be safe to ask for an audience this afternoon.”

She pressed a small box into his hands when he was dressed, before dipping her hands in water and combing his hair back, as Ruby had for him. “She’ll expect you to present her with a token, _before you ask, Dean_.”

He pulled off the top to reveal a heavily embossed haircomb, studded with deep red stones and glittering emeralds. “We didn’t have time to commission anything unique. This is something of mine, though I never wear it. I doubt she’ll recognise it.”

Dean gave Lydia a quick hug in thanks and she returned it tighter than he’d expected, such that he almost imagined he could feel the slight swell of her belly against him – even though it was likely far too early for such a visible representation of her state. Even though Dean was unsure of Lydia’s role in the whole arrangement, it seemed by the way she held him that she knew where he’d been and she was expressing regret on his behalf. The touch was enough to make resentment stir in Dean’s stomach, and in response he held her tighter to force it out of him.

When they pulled apart, Lydia was blushing and avoiding his gaze for unknown reasons, and Dean bit his lip, enquiring carefully: “How’s... how’s the baby?”

She jolted, staring at him with an unmasked expression so uncharacteristically Lydia that he was momentarily floored before she stuttered: “Good. Very good.”

“That’s great.”

She blushed again and reached forward to straighten his shirt beneath the coat, and tie a small white knot there – clearly a current fashion that Dean had hitherto been unaware of, smoothing down the dangling threads.

“I called ahead, and sent a runner requesting an audience. I think she’ll call on you this afternoon. Be ready.”

Dean nodded curtly as she stepped away, letting her fingers balance beneath her chin as she appraised him. “You know what you’re doing?”

“N-not really. I guess, I kinda... I’ve sort of forgotten how it goes.”

Lydia pursed her lips and gestured towards one of his own chairs as she invited him to sit, and she pulled another opposite him, descending with the grace of a trained courtier, but hunching slightly as she enjoyed the lesser burden of his company.

“She’s just like any other Dean.”

Dean jostled in his chair and pressed his lips together, in an expression that clearly betrayed his coiled disgust to Lydia, for eyebrows drooped at the edges, and she swallowed carefully, eyes watching his widely.

“It’s not love. It’s a seduction. You don’t need to let your heart know. She never has to have it.”

Dean’s eyes flickered up at that, and she gave him a small smile.

“Remember how you seduced me? A married woman, in the Princess’ innermost circle.” Their eyes met and she let out a soft laugh as they both faded momentarily out of the conversation to remember the night that Dean looked at her the first time over his ale tankard, at the Princess’ side, after a fight with her husband, and one hour later, he’d had her in the abandoned corridors of the palace, up against a wall, ravishing her mouth.

Dean laughed in return and smiled fondly as he watched his hands. “I think you were there as much as I was that night, Lydia.”

She rolled her eyes and chuckled again. “I won’t deny that.” She brushed at her skirts, as though it might lend a ladylike air to the way they discussed their past sexual congress. Dean’s eyes caught the movement and he grinned at her, and she shook her head before laughing properly. “You were a fine bedmate, Dean Winchester. I chose well.”

They both laughed a little while longer, before lapsing into an uneasy silence when the topic petered out, and the promise of the afternoon returned to loom in the room. Lydia cleared her throat nervously as she looked up at Dean again, mouth stuttering as she pronounced. “I never gave you my heart though, did I Dean?”

Dean met her eyes, and sighed through his nose, before shaking his head. “You never did. Though I’m not sure you’d ever be so foolish to ever give it to anyone.”

There was a flicker of a moment where a tense expression flooded Lydia’s features, but she smothered it with such expert artistry that Dean didn’t process it.  She arched one eyebrow instead, and let an entertained expression play at the edge of her lips: “You know me well.”

The joke ended as the first one had, with a fizzle in deep, wet silence. But Lydia persevered, even after the topic should have been abandoned by any polite conversationalist.

“That’s what you have to do, Dean. I know that... I know it was different for us. Whatever we did not share, I do believe we are friends.”

Dean nodded vigorously in assent, and the affirmation seemed to please Lydia greatly, for she adjusted herself in her seat to sit straighter and leaned forward. “Lilith is different, but perhaps you can grow to appreciate the burden that she bears. And you can trust her enough to...” she swallowed nervously around the statement, obviously entirely unconvinced, herself.

“Just think of her like any other. Any other of those women that meant nothing. Seduce her, bed her, entertain her. She’d be a fool to ask for your heart, Dean. And she knows it. Even a blind man could see it’s not available for the taking.”

Lydia reached forward and wrapped her hand around one of his forearms, squeezing lightly. “Love is as much of a burden as it is a blessing. Just remember that you love the city, and you can push it aside.”

Dean ignored the bitterness in her words as she squeezed his arm, and failed to enquire after its origin, although he caught the momentary glower that held in her eyes for a moment as she stared out the window.

“Dou you want me to wait with you until she calls?”

Dean nodded quickly and Lydia squeezed his arm again, before leading him to his small table. “I’ll draw some mead. I think it would do us both well to have a drink.”

...

True to Lydia’s expectations, Lilith did summon Dean that afternoon. Lydia prepped him quickly, re-styling his hair and straightening his coat before leading him halfway to the Palace. Just beyond its entrance, she peeled off and assured him that she would follow in due course, but muttering that it would not be fitting for her to be seen accompanying Dean to this particular task. He was forced to make the rest of the journey alone, under the intense stares of the City populace. A few seemed to sense his intention, although it was scarcely evident in his manner, given he had stowed the hairclip in a small pocket inside the coat. But perhaps it was the sight of him outside of his training attire, otherwise so common in his time in the City, that provoked their interest, and for the more discerning, their expectation of his quest.

The sensation was more acute inside the Palace walls, where, no doubt, the courtiers had talked of this very happening. His dress was not so out of place here, but perhaps his presence was, despite the increasing regularity of his visits to visit his sister-in-law, brother and nephew. Perhaps his gait betrayed his nervousness too, for a few ladies stared at him quizzically as he passed, and whispered behind their hands when they assumed he was out of earshot.

The Palace was still quiet, even after the City’s time to mourn the Royals. The pictures in the halls that depicted Eve and her husband were hung with translucent black material, which had the effect of depriving almost every corridor of artwork at all. The curtains hovered with a phantom wind, creating the eerie sense that those depicted behind them were breathing into them, in a ghostly imitation of the lives they now no longer lived.

A few maps and landscapes were left for viewing pleasure, however they seemed to pale in light of the sombre drapings, almost embarrassed at celebrating any kind of beauty where there was such a taint of murder still surrounding. The people that were about seemed similarly hung with grief, hunching over oddly and hanging their heads when not engaged in direct conversation. All the courtiers were still wearing dark clothes, although the time for black had officially passed for all but Lilith following the funeral of her parents. Lydia had mentioned she expected it to last until the news of the marriage, at which time Lilith would hope to inspire the City by returning to a more powerful garb, and perhaps would don the purple of her mother as the mark of new leadership.

Dean, in the presence of such solemnity, felt obliged to adopt its tone, and it was in hanging his head and watching his feet that he was able to walk directly into Alastair on his quest to the throne room. When he looked up, muttering a quick sorry to the chest he had offended, he did so to a cold gaze and stoic demeanor. Alastair cracked a smile, but it scarcely made an indent into the harsh planes of his face that seemed deathly pale, even in the gold flickering candlelight that lined the Palace’s halls.

“Dean... you’ve returned.”

The words were stable and even, but beneath them ran a threatening hiss that Dean didn’t fail to note. He felt his eyes widen as he watched his comrade swell before him, in a clear threat, despite the hand that Alastair offered him to shake.

Dean took it, noting its dryness even though it was almost fiercely cool to touch, and shook perfunctorily, before dropping his own arm to his side and staring directly at Alastair.

“I have.”

“You had matters to attend to, in the forest?”

Dean pursed his lips and swallowed carefully, frowning at the way Alastair’s eyes dropped to his mouth on the word matters, and a strange kind of smile quirked there.

“Yes.”

“They must have been important.”

“In service to the City.”

Dean shifted on his feet as Alastair cackled lightly and nodded, eyes staying on Dean’s despite the bob of his head. “No doubt. That is purportedly your aim.”

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer, except to keep his gaze fixed on Alastair’s until the other man was forced to look away.

“I suppose you come here to offer your affections, as I have done, in service.”

His tone were nonchalant, and his expression casual as he stroked at his chin mildly, staring at Dean’s pocket where the hairclip was contained as though he might see through it.

“Yes.”

Alastair grinned and looked back to meet Dean’s eyes.

“And you think you will be accepted?”

Dean was even in his response, although, as Alastair drew closer, he was forced to break his strong posture with a slight step back to escape the path of his icy breath.

“I do.”

Alastair cackled lightly again and nodded. “My well-wishes, _Slayer_ ”, the name rolled off his tongue as though it were a joke. “What a fine leader you shall make.”

Dean swallowed again and said nothing, until Alastair was forced to huff a breath of moderate exasperation.

“Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’re anxious to see her.”

“I am.”

Alastair laughed openly at that, and stroked his chin again once, before murmuring a soft “heh” and departing without another word. Dean watched him leave down the corridor, swaggering in his ceremonial dress as though he were headed for the same task himself and anticipated it with great pleasure. As he rounded the corner, Dean heard the light tone of his whistle, that trilled out an abstract few notes, ending flat.

He felt in his pocket nervously for the hairclip, assuring himself it was still there, as he made the final trek to the throne room. The guards opened the doors silently for him, and again, he made the slow walk down the carpeted pathway, dropping to one knee when Lilith rose before him and coughing out the endearments appropriate to thank her for her private audience. When he stood, she made little haste to make her way down the stairs, taking each step at a time as though she were already at her wedding and walking to Dean with a radiant smile. Her garb was still black, but she had removed the veil. Her shoulders still housed the wings, although Dean noted that they had been trimmed back and adjusted for her to better support them.

The effect was still alarming, but the change made the harking to Castiel’s own seem less direct, and Dean was able to swallow the threat of bile in his stomach far more easily as he met Lilith’s eyes. Her face was painted for the occasion – rouge at her cheeks and lips, and a dark line around her eyes. Her hair was coiled too, in a looser style than Dean was used to seeing, and she tugged at it, almost nervously, as though she genuinely did not anticipate Dean’s purpose.

“A pleasure, Slayer. I was informed you had left the City.”

“I had some matters to attend to, on an urgent basis.”

She cast her eyes down, in a posture of endearment and sorrow, it seemed, and murmured: “You do so much for our City, Slayer. More than can ever be repaid.”

She stayed that way, and Dean waited for his next cue. When none came, and with little inspiration as to how to discuss any other content when the purpose of his visit was so clear, Dean cleared his throat and stuttered out, in a stilted tone: “I would do more, my Princess.”

Her eyes snapped up, though her expression coiled into a coy expression, almost leisurely, and she let her eyes widen slowly as she appraised him.“What do you mean?”

Whatever confidence he’d had to hurry through the task was lost upon being forced to look Lilith in the eyes, and the sudden realization he might look at them for the rest of his life. A wave of nausea barbed his belly when his mind was overtaken with the sudden imagining of those wide eyes beneath him, staring up with blank longing, as he thrust into a limp body.

Dean forced a small smile, although only one side of his mouth seemed to respond to the order, and he felt it pull up manically to compensate for the paralysis that wracked the rest of him. Lilith’s eyes tracked his hands as he reached into his pocket and withdrew the haircomb delicately, cradling it as though he would an injured bird and extending his hands to her.

“Here, I...Your Highness, I brought you a token.”

It was a clumsy statement, Dean knew. Many men in the City made far better love with their mouths than he could ever hope. He swallowed nervously as Lilith’s eyes narrowed at the ineptitude of the statement, but she reached forward curiously enough and he uncurled his hand. _Seduce her_ , Lydia had said. Lilith reached forward and he almost flinched, and she paused momentarily, noticing the moment, before flickering her gaze back to him.

Dean took the opportunity when he blinked to summon Castiel’s face behind his eyelids. _For him_ , he told himself, _this is for him_. When he looked back to Lilith, he felt a temporary flash of warmth upon his face, in the way it heated whenever Castiel looked at him, and he grasped at it and held it there, until Lilith looked away and back down to the comb now offered to her.

Lilith reached forward with a delicate hand and traced the line of the gems, down along the prongs of the comb, and stopping just as she reached the skin of Dean’s palm. A soft smile spread across her face that Dean’s eyes tracked carefully, ensuring that it was one of pleasure and not of amusement, or pity, or something worse.

Slowly, she peeled her eyes from his and raised them to Dean’s, letting them almost be drawn in by his, before she inclined her head away.

“Pray tell, Slayer, why did you bring me this gift?”

Her voice was high and light, as though in a basic courtly flirtation, but the unbridled severity of her gaze made clear that Dean’s words were of utmost importance to her experience of the moment, and she held her breath as he stumbled over the appropriate response: “It.. it was a test, my Princess. See, when I purchased this from the jewel worker in Bazanne, she told me that it was the most beautiful piece she had ever created, and the most beautiful thing I would ever see. I... I wagered with her that I could find something more beautiful.”

Lilith inhaled and held her breath, waiting for the punchline of the words that were a feeble joke in Dean’s mouth.

He dropped his gaze to the comb, as though bashful, but behind his eyelids seeking to banish Castiel’s face from his mind as he spoke the words that betrayed him: “I... I was right.”

Lilith’s mouth was smiling as he looked up at her, though her eyes were questioning as she murmured lightly: “You bring me a paltry gift, Slayer?”

Dean shook his head slowly, letting his eyes stay on hers, as he dropped his voice a register lower, and shivered in his spine as Castiel’s deep and gravelly promises those nights ago echoed in his mind with increasing volume. “I bring you the most any man could offer you Empress, for there is nothing in the kingdom that could do justice to your beauty.”

She exhaled shakily and looked away quickly, blinking lightly as she looked to the floor between them. When she looked back, her cheeks blushed faintly and her eyes danced as she whispered, so softly it was barely discernible. “Will you adorn me with it, Slayer?”

She didn’t move, and Dean was forced to awkwardly circle around her, moving around the clipped wings to the back of her head where her hair hung loose. He kept his eyes firmly away from the wings as he did so, staring instead straight ahead of him, to the nape of Lilith’s neck where the first of her vertebrae protruded lightly through the skin, making the flesh stretch across it delicately.

He stared blandly at the skin for a few moments, trying to imagine the trace of his fingers upon it, and the prospect of it being enlivened with pleasure. It was thin, and pale, and seemed so dead in the way it hung on her bones, and Dean couldn’t help but wince behind Lilith as he reached for it.

He paused for a moment, breathing out carefully and gritting his teeth.

Lydia’s advice to him had been clear, and he needed t take the opportunity being so beautifully presented to him. He had once chance only, and he would have to endure it. For Cas. For his friends. For the City.

For Cas.

Dean’s lip trembled as he reached forward, gaze determined, and he pulled lightly on Lilith’s loose hair, taking care not to graze any part of her skin as he pulled it backwards behind her ear and slowly slid the hair comb in to keep it in place. He was equally careful to straighten the hair with no other contact, letting his body drift close enough to hers that she could sense its heat, but never coming closer than that and letting her properly discern his presence

He exhaled quietly when he was done, dropping his hand slowly so that it’s heat left a trail down Lilith’s back. With closed eyes, and a swallow of nausea, he leaned forward, closer and closer, until his nose was parallel to Lilith’s ear. She froze at the sense of his proximity behind her, but made no comment, holding her breath as he whispered: “Everything pales to you, my Princess.”

Lilith inhaled lightly as Dean lowered his head and allowed the tip of his nose to ghost past Lilith’s hair and down the nape of her neck. He held his breath, as she did, letting the vague sound of his movements through the air fill the silence between them, as though he expected the air to crackle with their proximity. Dean scrunched his eyes shut and pleaded with Castiel to forgive him, for all his trespasses, and his Father too, for what he might do, before he leaned forward and let the tip of his nose cross lightly at the base of Lilith’s neck, so light it might have been a lock of her own hair tickling her.

Lilith gasped in earnest at the contact and her shoulders rolled backwards slightly as she leaned subconsciously into the touch, seeking it out again. Dean held his breath, refusing to allow further contact until Lilith obliged him, and she did so after a few bated breaths, whispering quietly: “Dean?”

Dean let his cheek come to rest against the farthermost strands of Lilith’s hair, making the touch barely discernible, but this time controlling his breathing so that his proximity was audible. He heard the parting of Lilith’s lips as she exhaled shakily and adjusted lightly on her feet, her wings jostling.

Slowly, he curled his head inward, letting his nose graze lightly along the skin beneath Lilith’s jaw, before he let his lips inch closer, until they were only a hair’s breadth away from Lilith’s skin.

“My lady, I cannot bear to be near you.”

Lilith inhaled sharply, one of her hands jerking at her sides. “Slayer?”

Dean bit his lip and let his teeth graze lightly back across Lilith’s neck as he answered: “For every moment I am near you, I am struck but with one thought – to worship you.”

Lilith sighed long and slow, and leaned backwards against Dean’s touch, her breath stuttering as her neck stretched to the side, allowing Dean further access. He felt his lips twitch in recoil, but forced them to remain near her neck, using his reluctance as a teasing moment, that had her biting her lip in frustration.

 “Since the moment I saw you, though I hid it, as was proper. I never confessed, for worry of offending you, commoner as I am.”

Lilith’s breathing turned musical with a light play of notes of desire, that crept over her breathing to tinge it with arousal: “What would you confess?”

“That I love you. With my heart and soul. As I could never love another, or want another, or dream of another. It has only been you, as many nights as I have known you.”

She sighed softly again, this time exhaling a little moan, and twisted her head a little so that the tendon running up her neck was bared to Dean’s touch.  He stayed still, merely letting his breath ghost across her neck, watching her skin tremble as it came alight with goose bumps and its hairs rose, seeking out his contact.

“I have dreamed forever of holding you, my Princess. But I have kept it at bay, for none could deserve you.”

The words echoed in his head, with a chorus of falsity on each repetition, so loud he felt Lilith could surely hear them.

“Mm.” She sighed softy again as his words melted into her skin, and her body twisted a little across from his as he moved a little closer, so that his chest pressed just lightly against the wings she wore.

“But I have desired it most ardently, as long as I have lived. To stand at your right hand. And to adore you. For myself, the City and the kingdom.” He raised a hand and let it hover at the small of her back, teasing the fabric there but still not quite touching her. In Dean’s mind, Castiel’s eyes flashed before him once, and he felt himself recoil inwardly, even though he retained his physical position. _I’m so sorry, Cas_.

“My Princess. I am weak, and I must confess. Even if you order me expelled, I can go no longer without confession.”

She breathed softly through her nose, swallowing lightly for some time, before she spoke, voice far more even, in a way that might have been light and lyrical to ears not so thoroughly ruined to her words as Dean’s: “Come before me, Slayer.”

Dean left with a soft puff of ear against her ear, and another trace of his fingers through the material of her clothing. She stood still and statue-like as he made his way back around to her, kneeling as he appraised him.

There was a weighty silence as he descended before her, and he let his knee drop to the ground, and balance against the thin carpet and the hard stone beneath. Instead of rising after a few moments, as he normally would, he stayed down, awaiting Lilith’s nervous command to do otherwise.

Her voice was higher than he’d anticipated it being when she spoke again, though the thought of his having an effect buoyed him with the confidence to stand slowly, hiding his quivering legs by staring directly into her eyes, with an expression he hoped spoke to his lovesick words:“Rise, Slayer.”

Lilith smoothed her lips against one another as she surveyed him carefully, pupils wide with anticipation.

 “What you say may be true, Slayer. But how can it be proved? How can I be assured?”

Dean let the shadow of a smirk hover behind his lips as he dropped his gaze to her lips and back again. The movement was but a miniscule flicker, and in truth, he did not actually look at her lips at all – for his eyes had gone out of focus as she stared beyond Lilith and willed her to disappear from before him. Still, Lilith caught it, and when he met her eyes, he watched the pupils blow.

 “I offer you my heart, Princess, as would every man in the Kingdom, and I kneel before you in plea for you to accept it.” He made to kneel again, but Lilith stopped him by stepping forward, and catching his gaze, murmuring: “Do not, Slayer.”

He was halfway down, and Lilith had leaned over to reach for him, and their eyes met. As Dean rose, she rose with him, but slowly, enough that, in his movement, their noses were brought almost together, and when Dean finally stood, she made no move to step away.

Dean let his eyes drop to her lips again, and when he looked back at her, he thanked Castiel’s Father that in such proximity she was but a blur.

“My Princess?”

She huffed a few small breaths, moving one hand to trace two fingers against his cheek. He held still beneath his touch, though his feet jerked to move away. He let his eyes stare at her as she explored him, in the hope she would see the gesture as affectionate and not blank, until she leaned closer and whispered lightly:  “Kiss me.”

Dean didn’t let himself think about it. He couldn’t, until it was done. He obliged immediately, but softly, pressing their lips together in a gentle and heartless kiss. Her lips were unfamiliar in their softness, so unlike the dry skin of Castiel’s own that the Angel would never have considered required maintenance. She tasted as she smelled – of lilac and cleanliness – too sweet, too fresh, too dainty. Too soft. Too much.

The kiss was light and pursed, but Lilith sighed into it and leaned into his lips, twisting so to make the contact smooth and supple. When she dropped her head, she gasped as though he had kissed her with the love he proclaimed, and breathed lightly. “You must ask me, Slayer. You must ask me.”

Dean kept his eyes on hers as he dropped to his knees below her, and extended his hands tentatively for hers. She gave him one and allowed him to envelop it between his, dropping her gaze momentarily to their joined forms, before looking back at him with a soft, elated smile.

It was almost over; the words were there. And in one heartbeat, he was gone from Castiel forever.

“My Princess. I give you my heart. Will you accept it?”

Lilith gazed at him slowly, running her eyes across his cheekbones and down his eyelashes, across his lips and down his neck, coming to rest again with his – narrow and cool.

“I will, Slayer. And I give you mine in return.”

Dean felt his heart jolt, as though it had ceased beating for the entire exchange. When he spoke, it felt as though his body made to repel it up his throat and out his mouth onto the floor before her. For one foul moment, he had the image of Lilith taking it from him, and sinking her teeth into it.

“You...you have bestowed more than the world’s worth, my Princess.”

The disgust was ridden in his voice, but Lilith seemed scarcely to listen, reaching for him as he stood and hooking her fingers into his chest.

 “I have longed for you too, my love.” She let her free hand reach up to cup his cheekbone and traced her thumb along the skin, “and I have dreamed you would come to me. It feels still a dream. Please, make love to me. So that I may know it is real.”

Dean attacked the moment fiercely, as though he could destroy it, with a rush of lips, teeth and tongue, and Lilith whined against him when he pulled her waist to his chest and cradled the back of her head with his other hand. In the empty hall, the sound was little, but as he attempted to ignore the unnatural taste of Lilith’s tongue against his own, the sound overwhelmed him with its slick spits and vile smacks, making his stomach clench around gags and his eyes squeeze shut as though they could drown it out.

When he could take no more, he pulled away and rested his forehead against Lilith’s, rasping out hoarsely: “Forgive me, my Princess. I would not befoul your purity until our wedding night.”

Lilith stayed leaning against him for longer than he could bear, and he stepped backwards quickly, raising a hand to his mouth as though in horror, but using the quick opportunity to wipe her taste from him. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, and missed the movement, and when she did open them she looked to his chest first, trailing her gaze upwards until she met his eyes.

 “You are sweet, my love, to worry so, even as you seduce me so well.”

She stepped forward and leaned in to him, and Dean pursed his lips as she placed a soft kiss on his lips, letting her teeth graze the skin lightly as she pulled away. “Until our wedding night we must be apart,” she breathed out her words against his lips, and he thought he felt the trace of her tongue there momentarily, “but I await anxiously the moment I am your wife, and I can serve you. Pray, we must not wait long.”

She reached for Dean and pulled him into another kiss, careful and tentative, more of the maid she protested to be. But when she withdrew from Dean, her eyes were dark, her face flushed and her smile wide.

“We may announce it following the trial of my parents’ murderer, and we must be discreet until then. But I will think of you, my love, when I am alone and at liberty. And I will think of the touch of your lips, and wait for you desperately.”

Dean nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat as Castiel flickered and departed behind his eyelids, and the last taste of him was wrenched from him by the twist of Lilith’s tongue. “And I you, your Highness, with more love than any other man could bear.”

She smiled at him lightly and pressed their foreheads together. “Soon, Dean. Soon you will be mine.”

...

Even though Lilith had wished to keep the news of their betrothal quiet, the news spread around the kingdom in less than three days. She wore the haircomb Dean had given her at every social occasion following, and when they’d seen each other in passing, she’d shared with him private, coy glances that made clear to any in the surrounding that the nature of their relationship had changed significantly.

Still, in ordinary circumstances, there might have been enough to keep the secret, except that Lilith’s ‘subtlety’ condoned what might otherwise have been considered riotous whispers. The first night after their betrothal, Dean received instructions from Ruby to attend to his chambers in the Palace. There he found a roll of new sheets and furs for his bed, deposited at its end and wrapped neatly in twine. Ruby, with an arched eyebrow, suggested he sleep in the chambers that night, and in the morning, an attendant served him fresh breakfast, which was cold by the time Dean returned from his soldiers’ training, where Alastair had been mysteriously absent. Lilith took to appearing in his vicinity – passing by training in the morning with her ladies twice, and lingering for longer than was seemly, and being present in Sam and Ruby’s chambers when Dean visited with his nephew.

In front of Ruby and Sam, she still performed the part of the unattached woman, and she greeted Dean with formal curtsies and cast down eyes. Still, she let her eyes stray once or twice across the line of his shoulders and down his chest, and when she departed that evening, she suggested with a closed-lipped smile that Dean escort her back to her chambers. As Dean closed the door behind them, he saw Sam tilt his head in the silent question and Ruby freeze and purse her lips when they watched the way Lilith wrapped her arm around Dean’s.

Lilith was largely silent for the trip back to her rooms, aside from rather blankly asking Dean as to his attendance at the trial. He nodded his assent, and she clutched his arm tight, although her face betrayed no hint of emotion at the investigation of her parents’ murder, and she soon turned to lighter topics.

“When it is over, Dean, I hope we may bring smiles to my citizens’ faces with our news.”

Dean nodded mutely, though he cast her a glowing smile when she looked to him and raised her eyebrows in question.

Clicking her tongue lightly, as they turned into a narrower, darker corridor, she slid closer to him so that her side was pressed against his, and the swell of her breast was detectable against his arm.

“It pains me not to declare it, even once for my people before the trial is done – for it is all but impossible to hide my great happiness.”

They continued walking and she lowered her cheek to Dean’s shoulder momentarily, brushing it across the material, before raising it and returning to a normal distance from him as they turned and found themselves in a wider hallway, with guards stationed at the end.

They let she and Dean through, without a blink, and obligingly turned away when, as they reached the doorway to Lilith’s chamber, she stopped and turned her face to Dean’s slowly, eyes sticky as she trailed them down his body.

“It burdens me to be so near you, and not yet serve you as your wife,” she whispered lightly against his ear. Dean’s spine shivered infinitesimally at the way her voice hung on the word _serve_ , and he was struck with the sudden imagining of Lilith sinking to her knees before him. Once, he thought shakily, the image might have been a desirable one, and the thought of the Princess behaving as a common whore utterly enrapturing. But the suggestion in her voice that made it seem for a moment that eventuality was possible, in the very near future, made adrenaline course through Dean’s being in a tingling and electric way that indicated his very very strong refusal of the prospect.

Lilith barely noticed, and with a quick glance to the guards, she leaned forwards once and met the horrified shape of Dean’s mouth with open lips, and pulled behind his head so that he was forced forward to taste her. It was only momentary, and meaningful enough – filthy in a way that a Princess’ lips had no right to be, and promising in a way that made Dean shudder against her.

Lilith pulled away slowly, licking the sheen of him from her lips, with her eyes fixed on Dean’s. “I shall see you at the trial tomorrow, Slayer. It shall comfort me to know you are there, when we face my parents ’murderers and bring them to justice.”

Her eyes flashed in a way that Dean would have read as desire, had it not been for her words, and he peeled backwards as slowly as he could, inching from her grip. She let him go and dropped a quick curtsey, before turning and pushing open the door of her chamber, throwing him a coy glance and looking quickly at the bed, before closing the door in his face with a small smile.

Dean ignored his Palace chambers in his daze, and stumbled back to the cottage. Mercifully, it was empty of Ruby and his nephew for the evening, and he had the respite of a silent home as he curled into his bedsheets, and buried his face into the pillow – silently pleading to the Father he’d never acknowledged for his and Castiel’s forgiveness, and swearing upon his life, Castiel’s, his nephew’s, his brother’s, Bobby’s, Jody’s and anyone else’s he could have offered, that he would do anything – _anything_ – if his Father would grant him reprieve from this.

...

** 2013 **

Keith and Jessica left the room quietly that evening, and Bobby exited without even a word of good night when Greg left for the washroom. When he returned, he didn’t even appear to have noticed their departures – eyes fixed on Castiel’s as he made his way to his side at the couch and sat slowly, subconsciously, it seemed, leaning towards him so that their biceps were almost touching. Between them, the air hummed with an anticipation Castiel couldn’t name. Whether it was his own nervousness that Dean were so close to him through the unwitting Greg, or a worser kind of nervousness which he had not yet had the courage to name, but had started to flash across his mind in the empty hours and made him stand and rush about as though he could force his soul from his body.

If Greg appreciated Castiel’s dilemma in any small measure, he said absolutely nothing, aside from watching him unabashedly at points, before looking away and avoiding his answering gaze determinedly after. He fiddled with the amulet at his wrist constantly, and he swallowed often, which in the silence of the small motel was entirely audible. The movement attracted Castiel’s gaze every single time, entirely without his willingness.

Greg  eventually “flicked the late night news on” and sat silently beside Castiel. Castiel appreciated the respite it afforded, to have Greg’s attention away from him for a moment, but it scarcely performed its purpose, and Greg’s attention to the subject matter (a grievous war in the Middle East, no less) waned within minutes, and became immediately fixed on Castiel once more.

After an hour, Castiel could bear it no longer, and turned to Greg politely  with a questioning gaze. Greg looked away immediately and made a hasty retreat to the kitchen, bustling around pointlessly in there and eventually returning with two pieces of bread – one on top of one another, with nothing in between – which he placed on the arm of the chair beside him and failed to acknowledge.

Castiel bore the silence, and the late night television for another half an hour before mildly suggesting that he might need some air. Greg’s eyes flashed, but he only nodded blithely, and looked away as Castiel made his way to the door. He didn’t move from the couch as Castiel made his way across the balcony and down the stairs of the motel. Not knowing the area, he didn’t stray far beyond the lights of the building, moving behind it to a small patch of greenery.

The night was smoggy, by his experience – he was used to the uninhibited reign of starlight. But, since the Industrial Age, he understood from one of Greg’s dvds the sky had lost some of its luminescence, as a result of collected discharges of dirty substances that formed cloudy pollution. Still, after so long inside, it was a welcome relief. In any event, the sky might have been on fire, and he would have welcomed it, for a reprieve from Greg’s company.

It wasn’t Greg’s fault, really. His behavior in the past few days, in particular, the past day, left him in no doubt that his previous hypothesis was correct. Greg was unduly fascinated by his story, erratic in his moods and focus, and uninhibited and unabashedly interested by Castiel. While his gaze and veneer was still Greg, and there was not yet any mark of puncture, it was morphing – a smile there, two shocked blinks at a horrific turn of the story, and a shiver at the mention of Lilith’s declaration to Dean following their betrothal. Dean was stirring, more and more wildly, beneath his entrapment, and he was beginning to seek purchase. Greg was unaware, filtering Dean’s efforts so that Dean’s attempts read into his normal behavior – his open attachment to the amulet, for instance.

And it should have been a cause of great ceremony for Castiel – particularly as his story drew to a close, at least, the part of it that he could account for – that Dean seemed willing to come forward. For the thought had plagued him many nights since Greg had first refused to see him that Dean might never be stirred – too long subject to whims of other souls that lived their lives in his image. Was Greg even the first of Dean’s returns? Castiel had caused to wonder that often – Dean might have lived more than one lifetime apart from him and his memories, smothered beneath the enormity of multitudes of human experience.

It was remarkable then, that he fought as he did, bursting beneath Greg’s fingers and eyeballs, and pressing out little hints to Castiel of his whereabouts. Reassurances. Declarations.

Castiel felt sick.

Angels didn’t vomit. Not, at least, when their Grace was halfway to being properly restored. But after long as a human, and out of habit installed therein, Castiel raced to a mild looking bush and ducked his face towards it, preparing his mouth for the onslaught of the acid of distaste.

None came. Harsh, worried breathing did though, and he eventually knelt in the same spot, using the greenery of the thing to create privacy for the act, as he fought the frantic exertions of his lungs and forced them back into submission.

It wasn’t that he didn’t desire Dean’s return. He did, with every atomic compound in his being – they sung for him continuously, and ached for his touch. It was never in question that it was Dean. Always Dean. Forever Dean.

But the token of that promise hung around Greg’s wrist now. Castiel had given it to him for Dean, certainly, to stir him and to remind him, and to reassure him that his promise held true. But it was Greg that wore it, and that thought _did not bother_ Castiel. He watched Greg’s attention to it with interest bordering on fondness, and the thought of taking it away and denying Greg the trust  Castiel had placed in him made Castiel’s heart drop.

It wasn’t just that Greg was made in Dean’s image. When Castiel imagined denying him , Dean beside him with his hand in his, he saw Greg’s face crumple in a way that Dean’s never would. He saw the unique hunch of his shoulders, and heard the distinct crack of his voice as he swallowed around the swell of his throat. No tears, not for Greg. Only dull, weak despair and willing acceptance. Castiel knew Greg apart from Dean, and saw his face now in a way that only vaguely resembled Dean’s own. And he saw his heart too –so close, yet so far apart. Thumping feebly as a last bastion of life force within a boy so utterly wrecked by the circumstances he had endured.

It was not guilt though that made Castiel pause. That was there of course, and Castiel had questioned from the first day what would occur to Greg were Dean to be revived. He had doubted efficacy of taking one life to restore another, and had held out in the hope that Dean’s presence within this man justified the action – it was an abnormal circumstance and so would be resolved abnormally. The soul was indestructible and Greg would go forth. Castiel had encouraged himself on grounds that Greg’s soul needed the rest that separation from Dean’s would provide, and he was happy for it.

But there was more to the thought of abandoning Greg. Of sacrificing him in a way that might rid him prematurely of the few things he held dear. He was a person who’d lived a life, and there were others who cared about it. His sister, Charlie, for one, and Sam and Jessica and Bobby. Did Greg deserve that? To be cast aside for Dean’s sake? Could Castiel do that? And face his own betrayal of their friendship?

He couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that Sam and Bobby had been immune to his attentions. Certainly, he had related the story as he had done for Greg, and had made mention of their parts for their own benefit. But his focus was always too much Dean, and the information he relayed would scarcely be enough to stir them. They showed so little sign of it having affected them – Sam was occupied with Jessica, and Bobby remained stoic. There were hints of their persons, but nonetheless, they seemed content. Only a small bleed of affection for Greg now was the only sign of any major change.

If Dean were re-installed, what could be done for his friends? Could they be brought to him too? Castiel doubted he would be content to live with the visages of his brother and his mentor without their knowledge. Keith was not attached to Greg enough that they might stay together after this incident were resolved, but Dean was attached enough to Sam that he could not let him leave once they were reunited.

But could the same be done for Keith and Mike? To force them out for the sake of Bobby and Sam? What about Jessica, with her bright smiles and warm heart and sweet touches to Keith’s hand? Could Castiel deprive her of the man that she loved, and was so clearly designed for? Was Sam owed more than Ruby? Could Castiel deprive him of this second opportunity? This quiet, comfortable sweetness that had even attracted a smile from Bobby when he thought he was alone?

But most of all, Greg. Castiel’s thoughts turned to him the most, being cast aside and thrown away by what might have been his closest friend ever, at least, as far as he acted. His life was yet to live, and there was much seemingly had left to discover. Dean had had love, a close family, a nephew, a strong position in the kingdom, and close and unwavering friends. But Greg had been deprived of so much – his family, his friend, his livelihood, his future, his happiness. Could Castiel send him from this place before he had known the true realm of human experience. It was promising there for him in Keith and Jessica. And his work in finding Castiel’s tomb, Castiel was sure, would bring him accolades. He might be restored – he might find more than he had. This would only be the beginning for him, if he were allowed to remain. But what if it were the end otherwise?

Worse still, Castiel thought blankly as he could, to sway the stir of worry in his chest, was what he would do in the event Greg remained. He had focused on Greg throughout his visitation in the hope of finding Dean. But he could not deny that he had come to enjoy his company, his touch. Even his attention, smothering as it were at the present moment, was sweet, kind and did not fill Castiel with the recoil he would have imagined.

He did not dwell on the fact that the thought of more – more time with Greg, more conversations might not fill him with disgust at all, but a kind of vague hope and complacency.

Could he leave him, and leave Dean thereby, with no promise of his being returned? When their souls eventually made it to heaven, would Dean await him? Or would he be bound with Greg forever if Castiel left him this way? Would he withdraw from Castiel, for having been so fond of Greg, or for failing to bring him forth when he had known how to?

If Castiel did leave Greg to his devices, and allow him to live out his remainder, would he do so with him, or would he hark back to the heavenly host? Would Dean want Castiel to stay with Greg? And if so, in what manner? Would Dean care for Greg too, and wish Castiel to watch over him? Or would he revile their friendship?

For his own, Castiel felt that he could not leave Greg alone following the test that he had inflicted upon him. That he owed him more attention than as Dean’s vessel, and more kindness than he had shown previously. That Greg deserved kindness from someone, anyone, and Castiel would be cruel to deny it, when he was best positioned with opportunity.

The resolve came to him without an obvious conclusion, and he stood slowly, once he had regained control of his breathing, brushing himself off and making his way carefully back up the stairs. Greg was asleep, although he’d left the television playing for Castiel’s benefit, the volume on low but detectable enough to his ears.

Castiel slunk through the living room slowly, and down the corridor, starting when he saw that the door to Greg’s room was wide open. The light was out and Greg was breathing heavily in sleep – a relief, to Castiel’s eyes, knowing that it visited him so irregularly.

He hadn’t even managed to get himself under the covers before unconsciousness had taken over. He was sprawled on his stomach, arms flung wide and legs splayed, as though he had fallen there. He’d removed his breeches, although he kept on a black pair of underwear not unlike those that Sam had given Castiel, and he still wore his undershirt and the amulet around his wrist.

Castiel was quiet as he entered the room and stood in the corner, watching Greg carefully for a sign of nightmare or disturbance. It was a pointless exercise, given that he had no power to dismiss one should it arise. Still, it seemed like his presence was a comfort for Greg shifted on the bed and burrowed his face into his pillow, nuzzling it leisurely before sighing and smacking his lips and settling back into sleep.

He slept for ten hours, long past the others waking and bustling into the kitchen to make breakfast. Castiel joined them silently, and they made no mention of his absent presence upon their arrival, but he noted Jessica’s small smile when Greg appeared from his bedroom half an hour later, hair ruffled and eyes glazed with sleep, scratching at the back of his neck absently.

If Castiel’s decision had not already been made, it was made by that small human moment, that reminded him of the sanctity of every breath of life, as long as it could be endured. Dean would be restored to him one day,  in whatever shape or form, and Castiel would take him as he was and welcome him with every part of his soul he had left to give. But, in the interim, he could bring no more destruction to the place around him. For he had destroyed much of Dean’s life once, and he could not do the same for Greg, and Jessica, and Keith and Mike, without better cause than his own selfishness.

His storytelling would desist, and Greg would be allowed to remain.

 

 

 


	26. And What

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My most wondrous and magnificent readers, I am so sorry to have left you hanging last Saturday/Sunday (depending on your timezone). I was very frustrated not to bring you your chapter, but the reality of the situation is that I was simply out of time. The following chapter has been plaguing me for some weeks, and while at any given time, I am usually two or three chapters ahead of what I am actually posting, this chapter provided such trouble that I lost my magic buffer and was left finishing this chapter the week it was due. 
> 
> That, in itself, was not too great of a problem, except for the coninidence of my graduation with a most dreadful week at work. I was leaving the house at 6.30am and arriving home at 11pm, which left very little time to polish this chapter and have it ready for you all. 
> 
> On top of that, I was an emotional wreck, having been made to work on the day of my graduation and missing the opportunity to celebrate the successful last five and a half years of study with my family. 
> 
> I must give my most enthusiastic thanks for your spectacularly kind and sweet comments. I offer as many virtual hugs to you all you wish to have – of the squeeziest and cuddliest variety! 

  
**Chapter Twenty Five**

** 2013 **

The news of the cessation of his storytelling was met with passive confusion. Castiel did little other than declare that  he would not speak, without offering further explanation. The group met the words with curious glances, and mumbled assent, before Bobby suggested that they take the day to spend at the castle, if Castiel had no objections. He didn’t and they left quickly. Greg shuffled on his feet in the centre of the room, as they listened to the sounds of the rest preparing for their trip. After a few caught and held glances, which made Greg flush and hold his breath, he suggested mutely that maybe he accompany the group for today, since he had not had the chance to see the tomb since they had found Castiel. Castiel nodded, and Greg escaped the room quickly to pack his things, murmuring only a quick goodbye to Castiel as he hurried to Jessica’s room to meet the others and explain his accompaniment.

He heard, through the wall, their murmured speculations as to Castiel’s changed mood, but they smiled kindly enough through the window as the departed, and Jessica poked her head in and asked quietly if he wanted to come. He shook his politely, and she gave him a small smile as she left, though he heard their murmurs of confusion as they made their way down the stairs and into Bobby’s wagon.

He seated himself quietly, and listened for the sound of their departure, before he leaned backwards into the couch and closed his eyes, letting his mind stray to the memory of Dean before him, in the small cottage on the edge of the City, hurriedly explaining in a tearful whisper what had passed since their past meeting.

** 1425 **

When the trial commenced, the City was well-informed as to the nature of Dean and Lilith’s relationship. When he arrived in the grand hall, and made his way to the jury box, the various Lords assembled there made way for him to be seated in the front centre of the box, directly opposite Lilith’s throne. They’d made space for Garth beside him too, who stood and nodded wordlessly upon his arrival, acknowledging their camaraderie with only with a light touch to his shoulder.

Dean seated himself in his allotted space and shuffled as he adjusted at the collar of the robes he’d been given to wear for the occasion – long and black to mark the severity of the hearing of a murder trial. At the head of the hall sat the Lord Azazel – Lydia’s husband – dressed in similarly heavy black with a velvet cap to match, a scroll and inkpot before him, and a quill in his hand. The position marked his status as Lord Chancellor – that man most learned in the Kingdom in the way of law who would hand down the jury’s verdict with a slam of his mallet.

To Azazel’s right and facing directly to the witness box, were the thrones positioned to house the Royals, when they chose to attend trials. Lilith was positioned in one, at the right hand of the centre throne – the spot traditionally reserved for the Princess. The other two were empty, and draped in the same black that had hung in the halls of the Palace. Somehow, in the empty space of the Hall, a breeze found the force to rush through, and make the material at the base flutter where it hung. She gave a small nod to acknowledge Dean’s arrival, although it was all but indiscernible beneath the black veil that she had hung from the Crown of her head. Otherwise, she sat motionless at her seat, hands clasped tightly around the arms of her chair.

Courtiers gathered to watch the spectacle in the public boxes that sat at the back of the hall, all dressed still in the black of mourning in mimicry of their Princess. They mumbled amongst themselves, creating a hum of noise in the din of the Hall that scarcely seemed to reach its ramparts, which sat above them in stoic sorrow. Behind them, in the public boxes, many of Dean’s men and a number of the city were gathered, dressed in their best for the occasion and awkward and silent as they navigated the complex social matrix of decorum which they were unused to – having so little opportunity to witness a royal occasion.  Even with the murmur of the courtiers they were still  - perhaps a more common but certainly no less meaningful mark of respect for the Royals.

The Lords around Dean and Garth mumbled gruffly through tangled and yellowed beards of the discomfort of the wooden chairs which they were subjected to. They seemed to know one another well, and none made an effort to approach either Slayer seated with them, instead turning their backs to each and discussing their maladies with their counterparts. After a few minutes of awkward attempts to look dignified in silence, Garth leaned over to Dean, keeping his voice light, and asked: “Have you seen Alastair today?”

Dean shook his head lightly. He turned his eye around the room quickly, searching the public boxes quickly. There was no sight of their tall colleague in the assembled audience, nor in any official sitting capacity at the front of the hall, where he would have been expected to be seated – directly within the eyeline of the Princess.

Dean threw a quick glance at Garth, who looked out across the courtiers’ boxes and shook his head at Jo. She caught his eye and nodded, turning to Lydia beside her and leaning over to whisper to her, so close their temples were almost pressed together. When Dean caught his eye again, Garth quirked a fake looking smile and looked back to Azazel upon his platform, in time to witness him stand and proclaim: “All rise.”

The entire Court rose upon his instruction, including the peasants who brushed themselves off and adjusted their posture, as though they might be punished for an imperfect showing. Lilith was the last to stand, slow and careful. She turned to the Court, hands clasped before her and gave a small curtsey to the waiting room, and the entire Court rumbled as her citizens made to return the favor.

There was a similar burst of sound as the citizens lowered, but the jury remained standing – Dean making an aborted attempt to sit with them before being stopped by a whack of Garth’s arm to his. Azazel looked out to the jury, eyes steely, raising his scroll as he read aloud:

“Gentlemen of the jury, you understand the nature of the crime which you are asked to adjudge today?”

The Lords nodded their assent, although it seemed only a necessary formality, for Azazel continued regardless. “In order to find liability for the charges of murder and treason, it must be proved that the accused both did kill, and intended to murder will full malice and evil their majesties the Empress Eve and the Lord Protector, Samuel Campbell, may God rest their souls.”

There was a shuffle across the room as the Court crossed themselves with the mark of Christ upon their chests, and murmured prayers of safekeeping to their God. Dean, despite what he knew of their Father’s existence, merely watched the gesture with a blithe eye and swallowed when his neighboring Lord looked upon him in disapproval. He was reprieved from censure by Azazel’s further instructions, which rang out hollowly in the empty space: “The evidence and testimony of those accused will be laid out before you, and you will conclude as to its truth. If you believe, beyond reasonable doubt , that the accuseds are guilty of the charges laid before them, then they will be sentenced to death, for treason against this nation and its monarch.”

Dean swallowed as the Lords around him nodded gruffly, murmuring assent to the terms of their engagement.

Azazel solemnly nodded his assent and raised the scroll in front of him, proclaiming in a loud, perfectly enunciated voice: “Bring forth the accused: the Palace Cook – Missouri Moseley, her assistant and the royal taster – Pamela Barnes, and the runner – Edward Braithwaite.”

Dean started as the accused were brought out, weighed down with chains at their ankles and wrists, strung in a line and garbed in thick hessian. The Cook was first, a clear-eyed, dour looking woman, with dark clear skin and strong shoulders. Her mouth was a grim line as she walked, but a slight tremble at her wrists gave away the terrified pound of her heart that marked every step to the accused box. The woman behind her was far younger, but that was evident in stature only, for she kept her eyes fixed downwards as they were escorted to the box. Worst was the small body that followed them, freckled every inch that was on display and crowned by a head of fierce red hair. He was sniveling audibly, and his knees trembled so violently that they knocked together as he walked, and he zig zaged across the room, yanking on the young woman in front of him.

Garth leaned over to Dean, and raised his eyebrows in silent question, for any words in the heavy silence of the Court would have felt like a thunderstorm. Dean heaved out a trembling breath as he cast his eyes over the boy again, and nodded.

Beside him, Garth reclined back in his seat. But his fists clenched around the material of his breeches and shook with the exertion.

Dean didn’t register at first where he knew the boy from, but that he knew him. But as the child was hauled up into the accused box, and given a box to stand on so that he could be seen beyond its barbed iron fence, that the recesses of his memory supplied the image for him – a young runner, buck-toothed and red-haired, leading him enthusiastically through Ardus’ streets for an audience with the Princess. Dean had paid him a coin, and ruffled his hair, knowing he might have just made the child’s year, before entering and thinking no more of him.

Until now. As he watched the child whimper and sob on the box as he stood before Azazel, under the Chancellor’s wary eye, until the younger woman reached out, and with a trembling hand of her own, took his hand between hers and squeezed tightly. Behind her back, the older woman reached across and laid a soft hand on his shoulder, clenching tightly, but otherwise staring stoically ahead.

Dean’s eyes flickered to Lilith to gauge her reaction to the display. Beneath the veil it was obscured entirely, and her posture was perfectly restrained – a statue against the onslaught.

“I call first the Chief Witness– her Highness, the Crown Princess.”

The first sign of life from Lilith was her standing slowly and taking measured steps across the hall as she made her way to the witness box. The veil covered the movements of her neck and head, but it seemed she barely to look at the accused as she passed them by, even though Dean could hear, even from across the Hall, the breathy plea of the older woman as she passed: “Please, your Highness. Please.”

Lilith failed to acknowledge the words as she made her way to the witness seat, only pausing to pull the veil away from her face, parting it at the middle as she sat down slowly. Even from the distance, Dean could see that her face was tear-stained and puffy.

There was a murmur from the Lords, and her eyes flickered up the jury box, where she caught Dean’s gaze and held it for a moment, before her lips parted and she turned to Lord Azazel, smiling forlornly.  There was a tremble at her bottom lip, so utterly perfect that it seemed contrived, to Dean at least, who looked back to Garth quickly and was met with a curious furrow of Garth’s brow.

Azazel bowed before her, before seating himself and shuffling through his papers. He extracted a bible, which was handed to the Princess. She placed her palm on it, delicately equipped with even black jewellery, and stared up at her Lord dutifully, awaiting the instructions no doubt she already knew by heart.

“My Princess, do you swear to speak with utmost fealty to the throne of her Majesty, and with honesty and verity, so help your soul before your God?”

Her voice was mild, light, and perfectly cracked to convey emotional bravery:  “I do.” Dean’s mouth twitched as he watched the display, and he leaned backwards and stared down at his hands, interlaced at his lap.

Azazel nodded once and she took her seat before the court, crossing he hands in front of her and staring out with wide eyes at the jury. Garth dropped his head beneath her gaze and jostled against Dean, who swallowed and held it as long as possible, before he too was obliged to look away. He didn’t miss the glint of a smile that lit up the side of her mouth as he did so.

“My Princess, would you please describe for the Court and the jury the events that passed on the second to last day of Autumn, in the evening, just after dark?”

Lilith nodded once and adjusted, straightening her spine and gazing out to the jury.

“I was assembled with my Father and Mother, their Majesties, in the Court of Ardus, at the High Table. We were dining with our courtiers, as is custom, in celebration of the successful year’s trading.”

Her voice was clear, and rang out, though it was light, up to the ramparts of the Hall, filling it with her rehearsed lilt and careful complacency. A hush even heavier than the silence that had preceded it settled over the Court.

“We dined in normalcy. I ate little, for I was feeling unwell that day.”

She let her head survey the room, before dropping her eyes down to her hands and continuing softly.

“A soup was brought out for us to try – a final course before dinner – a new concoction of the Palace’s Cook’s, we were told.”

She adjusted her jaw lightly, causing the line of her face to tremor momentarily.

“My Father and Mother both took a serving, and they toasted to the City’s good health. I took a little too, though, as I was unwell, I set it aside momentarily.”

Azazel cleared his throat and Lilith’s eyes flickered up to him, suddenly merciless, and he bowed his head quickly. Her eyes flickered down again and she adjusted her hands before her, before continuing: “They both took a draught, and seemed to enjoy it, and my Father bent forwards to whisper in my mother’s ear.” She paused, inhaling quickly, and pressing her lips together, before shakily pronouncing. “A moment later, the runner who had delivered us our food started to scream.”

She brought a hand to her mouth and let out a soft cry. Quickly, she dropped her head, and a murmur overtook the Court. The assembled Lords and even Azazel looked around quickly, uncertain of how to appease the Princess where she sat alone on the dais. Neither her mother or father was beside her, and her ladies sat impotent behind the bar that marked the courtiers’ barrier to Court. In the moments following her first declaration, Lilith let out another cry, and sobbed in earnest. Beside him, Garth nudged Dean urgently.

When Dean looked to him in confusion, Garth stuffed a handkerchief into his hands – white and laced at the edges – before shoving him against the Lord beside him in an effort to motivate his leaving the box. The Lords blocking his passage stood and made way before Dean had the change to do or say anything, and at the sight, Azazel, who it seemed had imagined he might move down from the platform, froze in his position, and seated himself deferentially. Dean swallowed quickly, and the moved quickly down the line and across the floor of the hall, bowing before Lilith before moving up beside her and holding out the handkerchief. She let her fingers trace his lightly as she took it, before burying her face in it silently and letting her shoulders shake with a sob.

He looked up and opposite her, saw the wide terrified eyes of the accused appraising him. The young boy – Edward, Dean seemed to remember Azazel had called him – muffled another sob and hid behind the younger woman. She started at his movement, and as she momentarily raised her gaze, Dean saw the milky white hue of her irises. She was blind.

Lilith fumbled for his hand and clutched it, face still buried in her handkerchief, and Dean saw a few Lords narrow their eyes at the familiarity of the gesture. Garth turned and eyeballed any that seemed affronted as Dean awkwardly raised his other hand and stroked Lilith’s skin lightly, with a rough thumb, until her quaking breath calmed.

He heard the gasp of the older woman – Missouri – across from him, and he looked up to see her eyes fill with tears and her head shake minutely. A second later she looked away from him and hung her head, and beside her the young woman began to sob openly. He felt his jaw twitch under the appraisal of the young boy, and looked away quickly, giving Lilith’s hand one or two more pats before departing without her leave and crossing back across the hall to join the Lords in their jury seats. They made way for him silently, and seated themselves only when he did, looking back out to Azazel with severe expressions.

“Are you able to continue, your Highness?”

Azazel’s voice was soft and cautious, and Lilith looked up at him sharply, before her expression softened and she nodded quickly.

“Yes, I... I apologize.””

She looked down and twisted the handkerchief between her fingers, the white stark, even stained with her rouge and powder, against the black of her garb. Slowly, when she had waited another minute, she raised her gaze back to the jury and continued, shakily.

“My Father, he started choking, as did my Mother. I screamed for help, at once, for I could smell the poison on them almost immediately. It smelled like fire and ash.”

She brushed at her cheek.

“They both began to shake, and their fingers turned black. It spread up their bodies like it would consume them.”

Her voice recommenced its shaking and turned higher, as her gaze darted around and landed on the accused.

“My Mother, she tried to speak. But she could not, for her tongue was swollen with it, and there was... blood leaking from her mouth.”

Her last words faded to nothing as she stared at them all, before looking back up to Azazel, with shimmering eyes.

“The doctors came, but they were too late. My Mother and Father died in front of me. Their faces turned black and their eyes bulged. They would have screamed, but they were choking on their own tongues.”

The Court fell silent as Lilith heaved out another sob and she brought the handkerchief to her eyes to dab at them daintily.

“Your Highness, if I might trouble you only a little further, may I ask you a few questions for the jury?”

Lilith gave a muffled “Yes” into the handkerchief and raised her face stoically, eyes blank and staring straight ahead. “Yes,” she repeated carefully, “yes, please proceed.”

“What was the dish in question, that poisoned your Mother and Father?”

“A duck soup.”

Azazel nodded, and made a note on his scroll.

“Did the soup appear strange at all, before your parents ate it?”

“No. It was a new dish, but it smelled lovely. Had I not felt unwell, I would surely have participated.”

Azazel nodded again and looked her directly in the eye.

“Who was the runner that brought the soup to your family?”

Lilith’s eyes flickered across the accused box until she laid them on the small, red-headed boy, cowering behind the blind girl. “Him. Edward Braithwaite.” The boy wailed behind the woman, and she pulled him into her skirts to muffle his cry. Lilith’s gaze flickered back to the accused quickly, but she smoothed her face blandly as she watched them, before turning slowly back to Azazel and awaiting his question:

“Have you been served by this boy before?”

“Yes, many times.”

“Did he act strangely, the night of the feast?”

“Yes.”

“Can you please describe it?”

Lilith shuffled in her seat, and raised her handkerchief to her mouth, speaking through it with a trembling voice. “He was... very slow, and shaking a little. And he _insisted_ when he brought the soup that we must try it. Usually a runner would never dare address their Majesties without an address first.”

The boy shook his head behind the blind woman and scrunched his eyes shut.

“Did you or your parents say anything at the time?”

“No. My Mother and Father, they were so kind. Such an indiscretion would scarcely have been noticed.”

“When this boy has served you before, was he ever quite so nervous?”

“No. He was always quiet and polite – very well-trained.”

“So you do not believe that he was nervous around their Majesties because of inexperience, or their grandeur?”

“No.”

Azazel nodded once, and laid down his quill. “Thank you your Highness. Does the jury have further questions?”

The older men shook their heads and grumbled, and Dean stared mutely ahead – gaze flickering between the red-headed child, cowering visibly before the Court, and Lilith’s smoothly arched posture as she raised her handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed there carefully.

Beside him, Garth leaned forward and Lilith’s eyes flashed: “Your Highness,  a few questions if I may?”

She ceased dabbing at her face and nodded once. “Of course, Slayer.”

Her eyes flickered to Dean’s at the use of the nickname, now formal rather than coy sounding in the Grand Hall, but her smile belayed the undercurrent to its usage in such a circumstance. He swallowed and looked back to the accused box, where Edward and Missouri watched him with wide eyes, and a passing moment of sickness struck him that they should be privy to such an unexpected and inappropriate flirtation, however well-veiled, in their circumstance.

“You say that after Edward served you, he did what exactly?”

“He stood near my parents, insisted we try the meal, and then waited.”

“Is it normal for a runner to wait for the food to be tasted?”

Lilith shook her head. “No. My parents would call another if they wished for the food to be removed.”

Garth nodded slowly. “Why do you think the boy stayed to watch?”

“I believe he wished to witness my parents’ murder. To ensure that he had done his job and report back to his master.”

Garth nodded again. “What did you parents say after the boy insisted they try the food?”

“They agreed, and served themselves. And they told him to pass their thanks onto the cook.”

“But he did not leave?”

“No.”

Garth nodded slowly, casting a glance at Dean and raising his eyebrows. Dean lost the implication, although the way Garth licked his lips as he asked his next question betrayed a small nervousness beneath it.

He looked carefully over to the small boy, who let a small sob, before looking back to the Princess. “Princess, you said the boy screamed when your parents ate the first bite?”

“Yes.”

“Before the poison had set in?”

“Yes.”

“How long would you say?”

Lilith raised her eyes to Garth’s and they flashed again. Garth swallowed and repeated carefully. “How long... between your parents taking their first bite and the poison setting in? At what point did the boy start screaming?”

“A matter of seconds,” she said breathlessly, “it happened so quickly.”

“And afterwards, did he try to escape?”

“No.”

Garth nodded slowly again and raised his hand to his chin. “How would you say the runner looked after he saw your parents... murdered?”

“He was... crying, and screaming.”

Garth nodded again, saying mildly: “No further questions.”

He leaned backwards as Lilith departed the witness box, and looked to Dean sorrowfully. Dean murmured a quick “what?”, but Garth shook his head and looked back to the witness box, where another courtier deposited herself at the stand.

They cycled through four or five courtiers this way. Each gave their account of witnessing the events from various positions in the Hall, and Garth questioned each of them as to the same matters. They all recoiled slightly, and stammered through their answers when he spoke to them, even though his smile was kind and his voice soft. Across from them, Lilith had replaced her veil, but the direction of her gaze seemed to fix firmly on Garth, even when Azazel or the witness spoke.

Eventually, they moved on to another set of witnesses. They were those concerned with the goings-on in the kitchen the day of the murder. Missouri was called first, and she crossed the room carefully, dignified despite her chains and shackles, and sat with queen-like posture in the witness chair.

Azazel cleared his throat as she sat, and shuffled his papers, before asking: “Can you please tell the Court your name?”

“Missouri Moseley.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I am the Chief Cook for Ardus’ royals.”

“And how long have you held that position?”

“The last ten years. But I have been a cook in the Palace since I was but a child.”

Her voice was high and bright, far softer and sweeter sounding than Dean had anticipated. She stared straight forward at the jury, although her expression was soft rather than steely. There was a faint tremor at her hands, but she kept them sandwiched firmly between her knees to hide it, and a close eye on her colleagues in the accused box.

“Missouri, would you please describe for me what happened in the kitchens on the day of the murder?”

Missouri sighed and leaned back. “I prepared the meal as usual, over the course of the day. When the time came for the feast, I garnished it, and sent it to the Royal taster. She tried it for me, and pronounced it acceptable, and we then passed on the plate to the Runners to take to the Empress and Lord Protector.”

“Did you detect anything wrong with the meal?”

“No. It was prepared with ingredients used in other meals. The duck was left over from the roasted duck that went out as course one and the broth was made from its bones. I used the same vegetables as I did from the banquet served to the guests. There was nothing new there.”

The Lords behind Dean and Garth mumbled and Garth swallowed.

Azazel nodded and wrote something on his parchment. “Did you pass the dish onto the runner Edward Braithwaite with any kind of message?”

“I passed on no message. I passed the dish to the boy, and told him to scurry as fast as he could. We were late on the dishes and he was needed back as soon as possible.”

“You told him that?”

“Yes.”

Azazel nodded and Garth stiffened beside Dean.

“How did the boy seem to you, when he left with the dish?”

“Edward’s a good boy. He did just as he was told. Ran straight off with the dish.”

“And did he seem nervous?”

“Not at all. Boy has been a runner of mine for years.”

Azazel nodded. “Any further questions from the jury?”

The Lords grumbled amongst themselves again, but said nothing. Garth, however, leaned forward, under the burn of Lilith’s gaze, and raised his hand to his chin again: “How many staff work in your kitchen?”

“ Around thirty for a meal such as that.”

“And you supervise them all?”

“As best I can.”

“How many of them work on the meals prepared for the Royals?”

Missouri swallowed and met Garth’s eyes carefully.

“I generally prepare them myself, my Lord. But I rely on my staff to assist in keeping the meals warm, adding herbs and spices, and so on. We prepare so many dishes for the Royals – I cannot watch them all myself.”

“Did any of your staff assist you that night?”

“A great many, my Lord. It is impossible to remember who with what. Our kitchens are so frantic, you understand.”

“I do.”

Garth raised a few knuckles to his mouth and pressed them there.

“You say you passed the meal to the runner yourself to send to the Empress and the Lord Protector?”

“Yes.”

“And the boy was not nervous or shaking?”

“No.”

Garth nodded.

“Why did you tell the boy to scurry back?”

Missouri tilted her head in silent question, but continued mildly: “We still had some meals to get to the Royals, and I am ashamed to say, we were a little late in our service the evening, my Lord.”

Garth nodded slowly.

“So there were other meals to go to the Royals following the duck soup, and a dessert service?”

“Yes.”

The court began to murmur lightly, and Garth cast an eye behind him.

 “No further questions.”

Missouri was replaced by Pamela, eyes darting back and forth anxiously across a Court that she could not see and hands fiddling nervously in her lap.

Azazel stood again, voice ringing out clearly across the Hall, as he repeated the questions he had asked Missouri, and she had answered: “Pamela Barnes. I am the Royal Taster for the kitchens, a position I have occupied for ten years. I’ve worked in the kitchens for another ten years at least.”

“Please tell me what happened on the day of the murders, Pamela.”

“Everything went as usual, my Lord. I spent the day in the kitchens, helping prepare the meal. Once things were cooking, they moved me to my tasting table, and I spent the evening tasting everything that came past.”

“How does that work?”

Pamela cocked her head, and her hands trembled. “I usually, smell the dish first, in case there is something off with it. After that, I taste it. We wait for a few minutes, in case there are any symptoms. If everything is fine, we take things to the Empress and her Lord Protector.”

“And you tasted the dish in question that evening?”

“Yes. Duck stew.”

“And you found nothing wrong with it?”

“I’m alive.”

Her bluntness caused a ring of murmurs across the Court and the Lords behind Dean and Garth jostled a little. One raised his hand behind Dean, and Azazel met him with a nod. The Lord rose and asked, slowly and carefully, through a rough and weathered voice that seemed to ache after the first two words: “Are you blind?”

Pamela stiffened in her chair and looked upwards to the direction of his voice. “Yes, my Lord.”

“How long have you been without sight?”

“My whole life.”

The Lord coughed gruffly into his beard, hacking out what almost sounded like a hairball to Dean, before continuing: “Do you think it is possible that on the night of the murders a plate was brought past you, that you did not taste?”

“No.”

“But you concede you are without sight.”

“There is one route for the plates, my Lord. They must come past me.”

“But suppose another was diverted?”

“The duck stew was not.”

The Lord stared at Pamela for a long moment, before stroking his beard and sitting down leisurely, leaning on the framework of the jury box in front of him to do so.

“No further questions.”

The moment the Lord. Garth stood immediately, almost falling forward out of the jury box in his haste.

“My Lord, a few questions please?”

The irritation in Azazel’s voice was palpable as he answered: “Of course.”

Garth nodded in thanks, either deliberately ignoring or oblivious to Azazel’s tone as he leaned forward, hands clenching tight around the filigree of the jury box. “Pamela, you say you have worked in the kitchens for around 20 years?”

“Yes.”

“And you have always been blind?”

“Yes.”

“How do you find your way around?”

Pamela paused for a moment, pursing her lips as she seemed to search the empty air somehow in front of her, turning to face Garth properly and meeting his eyes with her blank ones.

“By smell, mostly. But sometimes by sound, by touch. By memory of the place.”

“You must have a good sense of smell, having relied on it for so long.”

Pamela nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“And sound, touch and taste too. All those things, you understand proficiently.”

A small smile flickered across Pamela’s trembling face, and she nodded again. “Yes. It’s the reason I was appointed as Royal Taster to begin with. I can smell poison – on people or in food.”

“I see.”

Garth adjusted himself in the box, standing up straighter and looking to Azazel.

“I wonder, Pamela. Have there been many occasions where you have detected poison, in food or on a person?”

“Yes.”

“Can you think of some examples?”

She stopped for a moment and ran her fingers along her mouth, clearly thinking carefully. “There was an instance, once, where the import from Rehin was diseased. I smelled it on the fish. We threw the away.”

“Did someone test the fish?”

“We fed them to the pigs. They died.”

Azazel made a note on his parchment and Garth looked around the other Lords carefully, meeting a few eyes as he did so.

“In your work as the Taster, have you ever made a mistake in ten years?”

Pamela shook her head slowly, and her eyes swivelled to look at Garth, even if they remained unseeing.

“No.”

“Did you smell or taste poison on the food the night the Empress and the Lord Protector died?”

“No.”

“And did you smell any poison on the runner that came to take the meal?”

“No.”

Garth nodded carefully. “Pamela, the job of a Royal Taster is exceptionally dangerous, wouldn’t you agree?”

She stared for a moment, before answering carefully: “yes.”

“If you were to taste a meal intended to poison the Empress, the Princess or the Lord Protector, what would your chances of survival be?”

Pamela cleared her throat: “The most common poisons I detect... they are utterly lethal. Most times, there is no cure. They’re fatal.”

“What are you compensated for your service?”

Pamela hung her had a little and shrugged. “A home, food, and a bronze coin every week, sir.”

Garth thumbed at his chin contemplatively.

“You know, Pamela, I risk life and limb for my City too. For my Empress and her family.” He cast a quick look at Lilith and bowed. “I am compensated a gold coin every week. That is more than ten times the worth of your wage, is it not?”

Pamela took the time counting out the worth of Garth’s wages on her fingers, though the calculation had the Lords rumbling behind Dean long before she had worked it out and answered with an uncertain nod.

Garth looked behind him, surveying the faces of the Lords that watched him, before flicking his gaze down to Dean and continuing.

“One might say you are compensated unfairly.”

There was a startled chuckle from the courtiers’ box and the entire room turned to find its perpetrator. None was to be found, but the sound was enough to provoke a startled kind of mimicry, as it the courts’ citizens looked one another in the eyes and saw the absurdity of Pamela’s predicament.

Garth shrugged, gave an impish smile, and looked back to Pamela, as though her life did not hinge on the question.

“I may safely assume that you did not enter the task for your wage, my lady.”

Pamela jolted at the endearment, and curled her hands together tight in balls. Garth responded quickly, seizing beside Dean and dropping his voice lower and kinder, as he continued: “Would you tell me why you did enter the profession, Pamela?”

The woman’s lips trembled and she dropped her face to her hands. A few moments later, her sob was audible throughout the hall. But unlike Lilith, none was ready to rush forward to protect her, and she endured her tears alone until she was able to wrack up the courage to speak, twisting her hands in her hessian as she did:

“My parents... they brought me from Etrea when I was very young. I was born without sight, and... they wished for it restored.”

She swallowed slowly.

“The City granted them entrance, though they had little to offer. We tried medicines of every kind. Every remedy available.”

She brought a shaking hand to her eyes and ran a finger around the edge of its lid.

“The Empress ... she granted an audience to my family. She tried to use her power to... heal me. She could not.”

Pamela hung her head and sniffed. “But her kindness was such a gift. She offered that I stay with her in the Palace. That I could earn a wage, in the kitchens, and make myself useful. I had thought... I had thought I could never provide for myself. It was the kindest gift. She protected me.”

Pamela wiped at her blind eyes aggressively, before stalling on a shaky breath and whispering. “I worked in the kitchens for years. For years in service to her. And when the opportunity came to protect her, I did as  could – I repaid her favor to me.”

Garth nodded slowly.

“You loved the Empress?”

“Her kindness changed my life, sir. She may have even saved it. That I could not save her...” She bent forward again and began to sob in earnest properly. Lilith stiffened in her seat and pressed back against the throne. Pamela’s sobs continued as Garth sat slowly, nodding to Azazel the cessation of his questioning.

Pamela ignored the approach of the guards to her chair at first, but she allowed them to take her by the hand and lead her back to the witness box, still sobbing. When she arrived, Missouri took her and held her carefully, rubbing on her back and stroking her hair until her sobs quieted and Azazel could stand, calling for the next witness.

The boy was silent when the guards removed him, though he stumbled several times on his way to the witness box and his chains clanked together, echoing with painful volume throughout the empty hall. Upon the stand though, with no one left to hold, the boy’s fear spilled forth, and he curled in on himself, heaving heavily chained ankles and wrists together so he could curl in on himself and bawl.

Dean fought to stay in his chair, but brought his hand forward to clutch at the edge of the jury box, as Garth did. The cries seemed to go for hours, during which time, Azazel made aborted attempts to start and restart the line of questioning that, it struck Dean as he stood waiting, was about to condemn the boy.

Garth, it was true, had tried valiantly to spin the tales of the accused to their best benefit. Missouri, with the timing of the dish’s departure and arrival. Pamela, with her loyalty. But this child, who had screamed at the murder site, who had carried the offending plate, who was the last bastion of explanation. What could he rely on to prove himself, when the circumstance was so stacked against him? When he was but a child, and a terrified child at that?

“Boy, what is your name?”

Azazel’s address was harsh, and it struck Dean, as it seemed to strike Garth, who was seated beside him, that the boy’s verdict might be pronounced with the same tone.

“Ed-Edward Braithwaite.”

A drop of water in a well a mile away might have been audible in the silence that befell the Court.

“You are a runner for the Royal Court on the occasion of state dinners?”

“Y-y-yes.”

A shaking in the boy’s wrists and ankles started so violently that his chains clanked against his seat with such veracity that they obscured his tinily pronounced words. Under Azazel’s stare, he wilted, curling in on himself further and pressing his nose beneath his knees, until, with Azazel’s nod, a guard stepped forward and pulled the boy into a proper sitting position. He cried out, and across from him, in the accused box, Missouri and Pamela started forward.

“Please describe for the jury what happened the night of the Empress’ and Lord Protector’s deaths.”

The boy’s voice was a whisper, suppressed beneath a throat swollen with fear, dry lips and the frantic beat of his own heart. Across from him, Dean felt Garth shift and tense, and his hand, clenched in a fist, dropped beside him.

“I... I was giv’n the meal to deliver. Just as usual. I took it up the corridor to the Hall, and I brought it to their Highnesses.”

“The Empress was her Majesty, boy, and the Lord Protector was his Lordship.”

The boy cowered under the stern reprimand from Azazel and made to move his head back to his knees, but the guards rushed forward and pulled them apart.

Garth stood, and reached out, as though he might say something, but Azazel merely stared blandly back until Garth slowly descended back to his seat, hand shaking as he brought it back beside him.

“When they ate it, they... they started coughing, and then they turned black. I didn’ mean it, sir! I swear to you!”

The boy’s voice turned high and frantic with no warning and he curled in on himself properly. When the guards pulled him apart he was howling in earnest, mouth wide open as though it had been stuffed his terror as he struggled to breathe.

“Did- Did – Did you poison the meal?”

Azazel had to call out over the boy’s sobs to make his question known and the boy collapsed in his chair, bringing small freckled hands to his face and pressing his fear into them.

“No! No! I swear!”

The cry was made through his fingers, and the guards pulled his hands away from his face and held them firm in his lap. Garth’s mouth opened and shut beside Dean’s and he held his breath. Dean leaned forward, prepared to do more, aware now of his new status at Court, but Garth stopped him with a hand to his arm and shook his head minutely, before turning back to the trial.

“The Princess says you screamed when her Majesty and his Lordship ate their meal. Why would you do so?”

“B-Because, I knew it would hurt them. I was... tryin’ to tell them not to. I was screaming for it. But... I couln’ say. Not till they’d eaten the bite. I promise, I tried, I did!”

Azazel narrowed his eyes atop the witness stand and leaned forward.

“Are you saying another poisoned the food?”

“Yes! YES!”

The boy wrenched forward of the guards arms, stumbling forward and racing to the witness box –reaching for Dean and Garth, eyes wide.

“The hooded lady. She made me stop. She poured it in the soup. She told me what to say. I swore I wouldn’t! I swore I wouldn’t kill them. She told me I would. And then it went so dark. When I came back, she had my arms. She made them move. I- I-“

The guards rushed forward and grabbed the boy, pulling him backwards with such strength that his head slammed on the floor of the Hall with a sharp crack. In a second, he was limp and the guards pulled him back, without a struggle to his seat, depositing him there without ceremony and letting him loll in the chair.

“Boy, you will behave yourself in this Court!”

The boy’s eyes flickered open and he let out a small moan before shutting them again and cradling his head. Missouri let out a cry in witness stand and screeched at them: “What have you done to him?”

The cry earned her a slap to the face and she fell back down into the stand, where Pamela rushed to meet her, running her blind hands over her face carefully and murmuring quiet words.

Across from them both, Lilith still sat stoic, unmoving in her throne, hands curled around its edges.

“Who was the hooded woman, boy?”

The boy shook his head blankly, and the movement was so lethargic it was unclear whether he meant it as an answer to the question, or as a means to expel the dizziness from his mind.

“Boy, answer me!”

“I couldn’t see... I couldn’t see.”

Azazel narrowed his eyes and deposited his quill beside him.

“If you knew she gave you poison, why did you take it to the Empress and the Lord Protector?”

“... I couldn’t stop... she made my feet move and my mouth shut. I couldn’t...”

The boy’s head lolled to one side and he raised a handcuffed hand to hold it, wincing.

“How, boy?”

“I don’t know.... I tried to fight her, but... I couldn’. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Azazel leaned back, pressing his fingers together and staring down his nose.

“Witchcraft. That is your story?”

The boy grimaced but said little more, holding tight to his aching head and squeezing his eyes shut.

Azazel’s gaze flickered to the Princess, and he leaned forward slowly, eyes flashing.

“Are there any questions from the jury?”

Garth made to stand, but a grumbling Lord beat him to it, rising slowly, but definitely enough that Garth’s youth could not beat him. He leaned forward across the jury box and stared down at the boy.

“You say you were cursed, boy?”

“Yes. Yes.” The words were strong and insistent, even beneath the mute and dull tone that marked the boy’s injury. His eyes flickered shut as she spoke and he adjusted in his seat, hands cradling his head still.

“How is that possible?”

The boy shook his head slowly, eyes squeezing shut and words slightly slurred: “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“We know of no witchcraft in these lands, now or ever. It is a fiction.”

“I-I-...” The boy sobbed again, though this time it was meek and defeated and he curled in once more. This time, the guards stood back, eyes cold; one kindness in a midst of cruelties, watching as he damned himself.

The Lord sat slowly, eyes severe. There was a pause before Garth rose shakily, voice uncertain.

“Edward, you said a woman poisoned the food. Did anyone else see her, that you are aware?”

“No...No.... She pulled me away. She lead me down another way. I didn’ want to go. But she made me.”

Garth looked down and exhaled quickly for a moment, before looking back: “How did she curse you?”

The boy shook his head. “Her eyes, her eyes were black. And she smiled at me. And then... I was screamin’. Only no one could hear. Then she left. She left and I screamed for proper. But their Majesties were dead.”

“Why did you stay with her Majesty and the Lord Protector? Why did you watch?”

The boy shook his head and cried out: “She said... she said I had to. She said she liked to watch. She said she wanted to watch them scream.”

The Court gasped and the boy fell backwards into the chair, shaking almost audibly, with trembles to his lips that seemed to reverberate throughout the room.

“Did you... did you love the Empress and the Lord Protector, Edward?”

The boy paused in his shaking, and raised his head slowly, meeting Garth in the eyes and whispering: “I love her like my Mama. The Empress, she was so beautiful. The woman... the woman said it had to be me. She said my heart... it was pure. And she liked diseasing it the best.”

Lilith stiffened at her throne and the slight movement caught the eye of the Court. The boy froze in response and cried out: “I loved ‘em! I promise. I would never have killed ‘em!”

They pulled him away screaming and took him from the room until he quieted.

They cycled through other witnesses, but none told any more. Other runners had no idea if Edward had been detoured. And other kitchen staff disagreed on how the meal was prepared, who had touched it, and when it was sent. All seemed reluctant to pronounce one way or the other, although they quailed under the gaze of the Princess, some to such an extent that their stories twisted in on themselves, until they swore another account entirely.

Garth questioned until his voice was almost hoarse with the effort, and the Court seemed to hold its breath for hours, until Edward was dragged back into the room and the jury was given a few minutes to deliberate. They stayed entirely silent in the box. The Lords breathed in the rattled breaths of the elderly and stared straight ahead. Garth turned, as though he might initiate talk, but none met his eyes, and he looked to Dean, eyes pleading as Azazel stood up and asked the jury to deliver their verdict.

There was no need for full consensus, he said, in the circumstances. A murder charge could be pronounced with a two-thirds majority. Each Lord could deliver their verdict as an individual. The back row started first, the Lord seated to the left standing slowly, leaning forward as he delivered his verdict and mumbling: “Missouri Moseley, not guilty. Pamela Barnes, not guilty. Edward Braithwaite, guilty.”

The second Lord pronounced the same, and Missouri let out a cry from the witness box. Pamela fell shakily, and clung to the edges of the accused box, breathing harshly.

When the fifth Lord pronounced their verdict, Missouri screamed, so loud that the sixth Lord ceased, mid-effort to stand and stared at her.

Her eyes were wild, and her mouth almost frothed as she scrabbled forward in the jury box, reaching for the Princess, and then Azazel.

“No. No. Please. It was me, I did it! I poisoned them!”

There was a commotion as a few courtiers screamed and Lilith started forward in her chair, as though she would stand. Pamela, stumbled forward too, clutching Missouri’s arm, and choking back a sob. The older woman turned to and held her hand tightly, and with a nod of her head and a choke, Pamela leaned forward too, her words empty and aching: “I smelt the poison, but I let it pass. I told the boy it was safe. I did it. It wasn’t him.”

Azazel stood quickly, waving his hands to calm the crowd, as a murmur rose high up into the ramparts, and with each passing second became more urgent.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, you must please be silent!”

“I did it. I killed them. Take me instead!” Pamela’s careful words turned feral as she called out across the Court to Lilith, who seized in her chair and crumpled. It was not Garth, but a Lord, that pushed Dean forward again to cross the floor again.

The Court was raucous behind him, and Lilith was limp in his arms when he pulled her up, pushing back her veil and tapping indelicately upon her face until she was roused, eyes widening as she appraised Dean before her.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” she murmured softly, as though he had expressed far more care in awaking her. “Please, help me back to my throne.”

Dean took her around the waist as she stood and repositioned her on the seat, and then let her hold his hand as she lowered herself back down, face white and eyes wide. She didn’t let go of his hand when she was seated, but instead pulled him closer, clutching around his knuckles so tightly that her own were white with the effort.

The commotion died a little as Lilith repositioned herself and set her expression as she stared across the floor to the accused box, where Missouri and Pamela reached forward still, eyes desperate and pleading with her. “Please, your Highness! Please, take me! I made him do it! I made him!”

“Ge-Gentlemen of the jury. In light of the confession, do you wish to change your verdict?”

The Lords stood silent for a moment, before the leftmost rose once more and ached out: “Missouri Moseley, guilty. Pamela Barnes, guilty... Edward Braithwaite, guilty.”

Pamela howled and the verdict ran down the line. Missouri was more subdued, although she murmured out a few _no’s_ as she dropped beside her to pull the boy close to her chest and let him twist his face into her shoulder. Beside her, Pamela fell against the barrier of the accused box and then collapsed, where she seemed to pass out of consciousness, judging by the way the guards manhandled her back into a standing position.

When it was Garth’s turn to stand he did it with shining eyes, and shaking hands: “Missouri Moseley, guilty. Pamela Barnes, guilty. Edward Braithwaite, not guilty by reason of insanity.”

His plea fell on deaf ears, except Lilith’s, whose grip tightened around Dean’s. When the two-third majority was done, it was unnecessary for the Court t turn to Dean, for the pronouncement was clear and the fate was sealed.

As the volume of the Court began to rise again, with calls of “murder!” and “treason!” Azazel donned his black cap and reached for his mallet, raising it to shoulder level. “Missouri Moseley, Pamela Barnes and Edward Braithwaite. For wilful treason and murder of her Majesty, the Empress Eve, and her husband, the Lord Protector Samuel Campbell, I sentence you to death, by hanging, before the City fourteen days from now. May God have mercy on your heinous souls.”

The Court yelled, the mallet fell, and beside him, too quick for Dean to see, but witnessed by the condemned eyes of Missouri, Pamela, and Edward, Lilith smiled.

 


	27. You Are

** CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX **

** 1425 **

In the day following the trial, the City was chaotic. The veil of murder descended over the City again, but this time, calling for anger, retribution and blood.

Lilith was met with cheers when she stood on the Palace steps before her courtiers and pronounced that she would not commute the accused’ sentences to beheading, so heinous were their crimes. She spoke strongly, confidently and regally, with Dean beside her, garbed in the robes she had sent to him that morning. They were red, just as hers were. And trimmed with gold.

Then, as the City reveled and raised their fists to chant for redemption, Lilith took Dean’s hand in hers and announced to the Court, in a voice that denied their conference of death, that she and Dean were betrothed. The City cheered harder, and louder still when Lilith declared that their wedding would fall on the day of mid-winter, and would precede her coronation by one day. In the interim, Dean would be conferred His Lordship and captain the Slayers of the City.

He was moved to his new lodgings in the Palace that day. They were only a few doors down from Lilith’s, in the rooms Samuel Campbell had been housed when he had similarly been declared before the City. The rooms, although freshly cleaned, still smelled of musk, marking the fact that they had been uninhabited since that time – only to be inhabited by future Lord Protectors in the time between betrothal and marriage.

Ruby and Sam were first to visit him following the news. Ruby hugged him and gave congratulations, as did Sam, but there was an emptiness in the celebrations and they were quick to talk of other matters after the initial pleasantries. Dean was unsure if there was concern that his leadership of the City would begin in blood – for none started so well that did not end worse. Or, worse, that his reluctance was palpable in his posture in how he stood in his new lodgings – small, hunched, out of place, clutching himself in the fitful realization that he faced a future of Lilith’s touch and none others.

Garth refused to talk of the trial when they next met. His verdict was the talk of the City, of course, as was his ferocious line of questioning. There was a suggestion he might even be uninstalled from his post, for such a failure to recognize the treason of the accused that stood so obviously before him, and thereby speaking against the Princess.

Lilith, to her credit, at least, seemed scarcely perturbed by his position, and retained Jo within her innermost circle as hospitably as she had previously. In private, she neglected the topic, only asking mildly when Dean intended to first meet with is Slayers and Captains. When he tentatively suggested that he might prefer Garth as his second-in-command, Lilith only smiled and remarked it was a “commendable choice”, if he so wished and leaned closer to rest her head against Dean’s shoulder.

While she was mild and contained in her views on the trial in general, Dean was careful to avoid the topic. In particular, he was scarce to address the fact that his verdict had remained unpronounced. Lilith made a few passing comments that assumed he would have accorded with her, and he merely nodded and said nothing else, suppressing the shivers that struck him at his core when he met her eyes  and remembered the crying boy in the witness box.

They dined together, at night, in Lilith’s chambers, surrounded by her ladies. A few of Dean’s captains were invited along too with a select number of the younger, more entertaining Lords. The men were plenty happy to spend their evenings  flirting and playing cards with Bela and Sarah, while Jo and Ruby, as the married women of the party, sat more mildly to the side, ignoring sonnets of poetry that were declared to them by their guests. Azazel was present, but Lydia was not, and Lilith avoided all talk of her, as though she had never existed.

Lilith was playful and coy, whenever they met. She dressed seductively, for Dean’s pleasure, he supposed, and made a point of stealing small touches when she thought they might be alone. They were enough to bear, for Jo made a careful point of sticking near them as much as possible to spare Dean the prospect of privacy with Lilith. Luckily, Jo was adjusting to the courtier’s performance well, and she regaled Lilith with tales of her and Dean’s friendship from younger days. Lilith enjoyed them, tittering and teasing Dean at the more outrageous, but if Jo ever moved to touch Dean – accidentally or otherwise – her eyes narrowed and her expression dropped immediately.

It was worst when the parties were over, and Lilith dismissed her ladies and her guests. There were usually jibes at the “private audience” that she sought with Dean, which were not silenced by Jo’s quick glances, or Ruby’s slightly pursed lips. Lilith, for her part, merely laughed at the men who made such brash statements, with a glint in her eye that spoke to her enjoyment of them.

Lilith insisted that Dean learn chess, and they spent many a night on opposite sides of the table, staring intently and silently at the board. Dean was quick to learn the game, with its similarity to battle strategy, but Lilith was a master and there were very few occasions where he was able to beat her. Dean preferred those nights, even if Lilith’s smug smile of victory was jarring, for on others she would ask Dean to read aloud for them both. At first, Dean had played up his illiteracy, bumbling over words he knew and reading slower than necessary, hoping it would stave off the task. But Lilith, contrary to his expectations, seemed to enjoy the incapacity, and took to leaning against him, holding her hand over his as he held the book before him, and whispering words in his ear when he knew not how to pronounce them. Dean learned quicker than he may ever have done otherwise in an attempt to prevent her touch, and he was granted the small mercy of soon having her lean back in her own chair and merely watch him as he read, a small smile playing around her lips.

Thankfully, she was fastidious in her virginity, which was something Dean had questioned after her failure to be bothered by Ruby’s suspicious pregnancy. Their touches never strayed beyond lingering kisses, or traces to the outside of one another’s clothing. But Lilith seemed undone by them, and often pushed Dean further than he was prepared for, before withdrawing with a shaky plea that Dean “not seduce her so.” In one instance, she made the plea as she withdrew his hand from her breast, and Dean bit his tongue to avoid pointing out that she had pulled it there in the first place, and held her hand over his, forcing him to squeeze at it.

He was happy to withdraw, and, after a little time, when he felt comfortable after he had satiated her, to insist he wished to protect her virginity in order to endure no more than even the slightest kiss. Despite his awkwardness in the suggestion, the idea seemed to appeal to her, and she lessened her advances slightly, although Dean was forced to tolerate more lovemaking with words in place of such encounters. It was worse, in a way, for Dean had so few poetries to use that might please her. And he found himself repeating, despite his deepest desire not to, small words and phrases that he’d said to Castiel so earnestly. Each time was a betrayal that made his skin crawl, until he felt permanently diseased by it.

Balthazar returned to the City almost silently, and Dean was at first unaware of his presence, until he and Garth turned up at his chambers. Balthazar hugged him tightly and swore him the world, and Garth even seemed a little teary, though they soon turned to other things – keeping a nervous eye on the door for Lilith’s entrance.

When she did return that evening, she brought news that a runner had been sent from Rehin pleading for a late in the year supply of medicines. A fire had broken out in the City’s stores, and while it had been managed well by Jody, there had been a critical loss. In the impending winter, when disease and death were at their most rampant, the absence could be catastrophic. The message gave Dean, Balthazar and Garth the excuse to vacate Lilith’s gathering for the evening, to urgently discuss the management of the task.

Balthazar was insistent that he attend, though he offered little justification. His insistence went uncontested. It made sense, given that Garth wished to spend the Winter with Jo, and Dean was now restricted from the Road. Alastair was still absent (of which they were suspicious, and Dean rather assumed Balthazar meant to hunt him down in the woods). Another captain could not necessarily be trusted to watch for Alastair and report on his activities, wherever he might have gotten to. Balthazar, not being otherwise obliged elsewhere, and somewhat twitchy, for whatever reason, was the obvious choice and happy to volunteer. Dean obtained Lilith’s consent the next  morning for Balthazar to depart the City, and permission to help arrange the stock to send and brief the men. It granted him almost two full days of reprieve from her, although he was still obliged at the evening gatherings.

Balthazar, seemingly sensing his claustrophobia , was happy to send him on his way whenever he appeared at the stables to provide assistance: “there’s no trouble in this. Go see your brother. Or Garth. I won’t tell your lady that you’ve run off.”

The truth was that neither Garth nor Sam and Ruby could provide much of a reprieve. There was still pity in their stares and greetings, and the subject of his quick betrothal hung in the air heavily, like a thick musk that clung to his skin and tongue, leaving forever a faint, acidic and vile scent upon him.

No one spoke of the condemned to him. And he was grateful. For any mention of the subject struck Dean with a vision of himself beside Missouri, Pamela and Edward at the gallows, noose around his neck and awaiting Lilith’s instruction for the floor to fall.

Dean’s time ended up best spent with his nephew, in that regard. Lilith had granted him access to her Royal Gardens, and Ruby and Sam, with pained expressions, gave him permission to take Samuel to sit in the early winter sunlight. Samuel seemed to be the only of his company not imbued with pity for him, and Dean grew to find his constant demand for his own needs soothing: food, changing, affection, sleep and the inexplicable desire to scream aggressively half the time. It put Castiel to the back of his mind and made him a vague presence, rather than a constant one. It obscured him, enough that Dean could pass the day without insanity.

There was nothing to absolve him at night, though. Even his physical capacities for relief were removed; tears wouldn’t come now they had said farewell, and Castiel’s loss settled like lead within him, making his feet drag in his stomach freeze. In the private moments, where none would oblige him his distraction, he was ferocious in his seeking any other option for thought – staring pointlessly at walls, carpets, his own hands with a dull kind of curiosity, like he were suddenly truly aware of their contents.

He’d thought he might dream of Castiel, and he regretted being grateful that he didn’t – largely. He supposed that was some kind of defensive mechanism on his brain’s part. Any true thought of the Angel in his cottage, still injured and under constant threat, had Dean paralyzed at whatever task he was performing, anywhere from a minute to ten, stuck to navigate the complexity of what was left.

He did keep Castiel’s blade close, constantly. Up a sleeve, down a boot, and even at his waist where he could carefully hide it beneath a cloak. He hadn’t shown anyone, even Sam. In fact, he didn’t even look at it himself except where he was required to don or remove it.

He kept it wrapped in a light calico the rest of the time, and carefully hidden beneath his pillow. At first, he’d left it there, as though it might somehow alleviate the difficulty of missing Castiel – that a grip around its hilt might somehow be a touch to Castiel, a promise of his sentiment, and an echo of what they had shared.

It wasn’t that it didn’t matter. It was just that it was empty. It was Castiel’s, but it wasn’t him. It had none of his life or substance. It was a promise, a token, of everything they could not endure together, and a reminder that they would be without it. Dean found himself simultaneously loving and despising the thing in equal measure – furious when he had to reveal it to himself to clean it, or check its form.

He didn’t want to forget Castiel, and nothing he had felt had lessened. But it was a constant reminder of Dean’s departure, of the fact that he hated his circumstance so significantly now that he physically ached with regret in the morning. Even the sound of birdcall was like the crunch of glass in his own mouth to behold, when he couldn’t feel the press of Castiel’s chest against his back and his wing slung across his shoulder.

Balthazar left two days before the date of the execution. Dean met him down at the Gates, morose and dull as he looked past the ramparts of the City to the waving trees and felt a pang of longing to be back in the fresh air, with emptiness and promise beyond him. Balthazar had assembled a small group of men, given the load was so small – only four in total. Two of them were Captains, clearly currying for Dean’s favor with their voluntary engagement, and two were boys new to the force and clearly in need of the experience. They all bowed when Dean arrived, except Balthazar, who clapped him on the shoulder first, and then dropped to his knee with a mocking wink.

“The weather is looking good for your trip.” Dean said blandly, shading his eyes as he looked up past the ramparts to a surprisingly clear blue sky, uninhibited by clouds – odd for the time of year.

Balthazar nodded gruffly and moved back to his carriage, pulling tight a few leather cords that strung the load carefully so as to prevent the glass being imbalanced and shattered on the trip. He looked up to see Dean’s eyes tracking the movement, and grinned: “Precious cargo.”

“Are you still set for the Blue Range path?”

“I think so. It’s furthest out. There wasn’t any sign of anything.... interesting, in that direction last trip. I think it’ll be safest.”

Dean nodded slowly, and crossed his arms.

“Are there are any other supplies you need? We have them to spare. It’s rough out there.”

Balthazar shrugged and mounted his horse. “Nothing we can’t handle, Dean. There’s no need to worry.”

A stablehand ran forward and passed him a thick fur, which Balthazar slung around his shoulders. He looked back down at Dean, pursing his lips before murmuring: “I mean to stay safe. You have my word.”

Dean nodded abruptly and stepped back, allowing Balthazar to turn and signal to his men, who had climbed upon their horses in mimicry of him, in preparation for departure.

“We’ll be back for the wedding, no doubt.” Balthazar winked cheekily and his men whooped behind him. With an inclined hand, he beckoned Dean closer and slid a little lower on his steed, murmuring: “Garth will keep an eye on things. We’re almost clear. You can do this.”

Dean swallowed and nodded curtly as Balthazar slid atop his mare and patted her neck. “We’ll see you before the snows, brother. Keep well.”

Bobby yelled for the Gates to be opened and the group moved out quickly. Dean scarcely had a chance to catch a flicker of the Road before the group was upon it and the doors were hurriedly being pulled shut, by sweaty red-faced boys cowering under Bobby’s cry.

He made to depart almost immediately, but Bobby hollered for him to come back and take a mead with him in his office. The invitation came out as a barked order, and after years of instruction in that same tone, Dean obliged without hesitation. The practice was entirely inappropriate, given Dean’s new status in Court, and Bobby’s own position – inebriation of any kind on the job was intolerable. But Bobby was a friend, and Dean trusted his judgment enough to nod curtly and follow him into the small, dank office that sat just behind a doorway entrance to the Road which Bobby used as his entry and exit point for painting markings at appropriate times of year.

It might as well have been a stable, for the repair he kept it in. The floor was covered with straw tracked in from the gates, dust and general filth. It was feebly lit, only by a few glowing lanterns hung from the walls at random points that Bobby had clearly selected on impulse. In any event, despite the din, he only had one lit – the candles in the rest were nothing but feeble piles of wax with wicks long since drenched beyond useful use.

Bobby clearly kept a supply of liquor under his desk sufficient to rival Ellen’s, for he produced several options for Dean to try before pouring one particularly generous serving into a tankard spotted with age. Dean reveled in its filthy nature, more used to the soldier’s cleaning that befell every vessel on the road, rather than the clinical exactitude implemented upon tankards in the Palace.

The mead was strong – far more than he’d expected – but that didn’t deter his draining half of it in one draught, before placing it back on the table and staring at it gormlessly.

Bobby watched him carefully, before sighing gruffly and imitating the action, letting out a fresh, wet breath as he placed his tankard down before him and pressed his lips together beneath his beard.

“You did well, Dean. You’ll do right.”

Dean didn’t bother to acknowledge the words, instead leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers, murmuring: “guess this’ll be the last chance we get to take a draught together, huh?”

Bobby guffawed and raised his tankard inclining his head, before draining the rest of it and filling it back to the brim. He reached out and substantiated Dean’s tankard without another word, before shaking the bottle to find it empty, and tossing it behind him carelessly.

They drank in silence again, Dean staring at the table and Bobby staring at him, before both set their drinks down and sighed.

“I’ll tell ya what, son. She’s a prissy thing. But it’s worth it, for what you could do.”

In any other circumstance, Dean might have choked on the frankness of Bobby’s words. But there was such sincerity there, and such certainty, that it was hard not to click his tongue in acknowledgment and tilt his head.

“I’ll tell you, I hope it.”

Bobby shrugged and moved his hands so they cradled his tankard. “The heart’s a prissy thing too. Keeps you alive but it’ll destroy you if you let it.”

He raised his eyes slowly to Dean’s and stared meaningfully. “There are some who learn to love wider, Dean. You gotta learn to do that.”

Dean’s mouth parted in response, but there was little to say to Bobby’s blunt wisdom and he had no choice to drown his verbal incompetence in another drink.

“Think of Jody, in Rehin. I know you like her. Now there’s a woman that got dealt a hard hand.”

Bobby leaned back and cleared his throat gruffly. “Father, husband, son. All dead on the Road. Left with nothin’. Cities like ours, they’ll leave women to rot.”

He swallowed carefully and reached a hand up to fiddle with something in his teeth, extracted it, and discarded it without ceremony onto the floor beside him, snickering challenge as Dean watched the movement.

“That woman, her heart could’a betrayed her. But she took control of it. Harnessed it. Set it to that City o’ hers. Now look at her.”

He stared Dean down until Dean was forced to take another drink and nod his acquiescence.

“I’m not sayin’ you can’t hurt. Or that you ought’a forget. What’s done is done. But there’s more yet to be.”

They stared at one another a long moment before Bobby guffawed again and sat back in his chair. “That’s all I have for you, kid. You’ll do it. I know you will.”

Dean sighed, nodded and drained his tankard, setting it down on the table carelessly and staring at his reflection in the wet base.

“You ever regret any of it, Bobby?”

Bobby shook his head slowly, eyes wide. “You can’t regret what’s right, son. Even if it’s hard for you. You’d be regrettin’ lives.”

He stared at Dean until he swallowed and sighed again, nodding a few times, brushing at his cheek, and looking up. “You’re right, Bobby. I know you’re right.”

Bobby chortled again, reaching forward and slapping Dean on the arm, as though the conversation were a joviality only. “’’Course I am. I’m as old as the hills. Had t’ have learned somethin’ in all that time.”

His laugh was light, but his eyes were hard, and Dean was forced to look away, too afraid of seeing his future there. Of terrifying himself away from what he had to do and who he might become by doing it.

“Sometimes I wonder, old man.”

Bobby’s laugh was startled but relieved, as he reached forward to cuff Dean around the head. He did it twice, for good measure: “got to do it while I still got the chance”, and then settled back chortling.

“You just wait, son. One day, your hips are gonna give out from all those parvannes, unless you stop shaking your arse so much. Then you’ll know an old man’s rage.”

Dean laughed along, although his stomach dropped with the blunt realization that he would indeed be full of rage in years to come, and not for that reason.  And in the face of that, the drinking continued but the laughter did not, until the early hours of the morning when Bobby slurred he ought to return to his chambers. Dean did so, eyes blurring with the first tears that had fallen since he’d left Castiel, and when he fell to sleep, he clutched Castiel’s sword tight to him, but banished him from his dreams – lest he refuse to leave them.

...

They seated Dean on a mounted platform for the execution. It wasn’t unlike the structure of the gallows in its material and composition – bland, light, dead-looking wood, sat high on beams so that its occupants were universally visible from the City square. There were two thrones there for their seating, still draped in thin black that Dean assumed would depart once the three souls were condemned and the Court’s attention turned to his impending marriage.

The crowds had already gathered by the time they arrived. Lilith was wearing her wings – _Gabriel’s_ wings. Dean had helped her adjust them prior to their entry to the square and while she’d complained a little of their weight, she’d given comment that insinuated he was to pay compliment to them in any event. Dean pronounced her “majestic”, and she’d smiled and pecked his lips, before murmuring that upon their marriage some might be sought for him, for she would have all know how much she cherished him – how _equal_ they were.

Dean had swallowed and nodded and felt glad he’d already been sick that morning. There was nothing left in his stomach to empty.

There was a cheer as they took to the stage. Dean stood while Lilith descended to her throne – somehow lugged by a small army of servants from the throne room to its current location – and then took his own seat, perching on its end to avoid leaning back into Lilith’s wings as they crossed across the back of the chair. Garth was at the side of his platform, beside Jo, and the three exchanged a private glance while Lilith spoke with her guards. When their gaze held, Jo let out a small cry and gagged, and Garth quickly pulled her towards him to muffle the noise and the sight of her dissent.

A trumpet call marked silence in the Court as a Registrar stood at the gallows to declare that this Thursday, on the twentieth day of Winter, should be the day of retribution for the deaths of her Majesty, the Empress and his Lordship, Samuel Campbell.

“The condemned Missouri Moseley, Pamela Barnes and Edward Braithwaite are sentenced to be hung by the neck until Death and then dragged through the streets as penance for the charges of murder, conspiracy and treason, may God have mercy on their souls.”

The crowd mumbled and crossed themselves, although behind the platform a man’s cry rang out “for the Princess!” and the deference turned to cheers. Lilith dropped her gaze, failing to acknowledge the cry as the city turned to look, but when silence descended again, she reached across from her throne and took Dean’s hand.

“May the traitors be brought forth!”

The Registrar stepped to the side as the condemned were brought through the crowd. There was silence until a woman spat at the feet of Missouri, and then a chorus of cheers and jeers rang out, and the group were jostled as they stumbled meekly to the platform.

Each was blank, wide-eyed and deadened looking, hanging their heads and deaf to the calls as they stumbled up the stairs, past the executioner, who stood solemnly by the lever that marked the precarious balance of their mortality. Each was simply dressed – spared the indignity of the sacks that they had been garbed in for the trial. The women wore plain cream dresses, obviously sewn loosely and hurriedly for the occasion, so that they fit ill and hung heavily on their terrified frames. The boy wore a loose shirt in the same material, and thin grey trousers that were far too wide for him and shorn at the ankles to account for his small stature. Each was bound at the wrists by a few coils of rope, tied expertly to prevent escape.

They were positioned one-by-one below a waiting noose, and fitted by the executioner, who pulled it tight around their necks. Edward was too small, and thoughtlessly, none had provided him with a platform. There was a temporary rush as a stool was hastily fetched from a store nearby and he was positioned above it, trembling, and fitted with the instrument of his impending death.

The Registrar returned and the charges were ready out blandly, obscured largely by cries of the citizens for blood. Dean sneaked a quick glance at Lilith, who stared straight ahead at the condemned, chin set and eyes wide. The purse of her lips was the only betrayal of the presence of emotion at all, although its content was oblique and untranslatable. Dean’s hand twitched around hers as he looked back to the platform.

The condemned had haunted him since the trial, but he had swallowed down  the knowledge that Lilith’s pronouncement could not be appealed, particularly following the purported “confessions” on behalf the two women, and the stack of evidence against the boy. It hadn’t stopped him from, against her lips one night, requesting the taking a merciful line regarding their punishment. She’d bitten into his lip at that, and he’d said no more, allowing her to press her body up against his so that he felt the swell of her breasts and the dip between her hips and below.

The sight of a noose around their necks, regardless of guilt of otherwise, was enough to instill a vile nausea in Dean. It was a soldier’s tiredness – too dispirited from death and violence to see it dealt out with such ceremony. If it needed to happen, it ought to be private. But if it were Dean’s way, and they were as guilty as they said, life in a dank cell was enough, to any who had ever seen the sky. Even restricted as he was now, inside the walls of the City, his breathing felt labored and full of effort. It would have been enough, he thought with dispirit, to have let them live.

Still, to not watch as the judgment was pronounced and the lever was pulled would have angered Lilith, and in the past weeks in her company, seeing her anxious changes between severity and flirtation, he was increasingly more mindful in her presence, considering, for perhaps the first time, that there might be more to her than the visage that she saw fit to project. From the way Garth and Jo kept such careful eyes on him, he suspected that they were aware of this, and he modified his behavior accordingly.

The Registrar’s speech trundled on too long, leaving the accused to stare blankly ahead, seemingly deflated after whatever eruption of emotion had no doubt plagued them the night before. A few tears streaked down their cheeks as they were forced to endure their final moments with such tedium, and cherish them as their final opportunity. When the Registrar drew to the close, he stepped back, with a nod to the accused, and called declaration: “speak your last, if you wish.”

Missouri shook her head slowly and dropped her gaze to her hands, wringing together as best they could beneath their bonds. The boy, Edward, gave a sob and murmured out a few words, though they were without power to cross the square to where Dean sat, even if they had not been drowned out with yells. Pamela seemed inclined another way, and inched forward ever so slightly, opening her mouth and yelling out hoarsely above the din.

“I accept my fate, within the laws prescribed for my City. For I will, even when I cease to breathe, protest my love of the Empress. But for the prospect of her daughter, I-“

Her voice cut off with a gasp as the floor beneath her dropped, along with those on either side of her. Dean, even though he had intended otherwise, flinched and looked away from the suddenness of it, and flinched again when he heard the sound of the thud that marked the improper set up of the execution. He knew, before he drew a breath that empowered him to look back up, that he would see it to the right of Pamela’s dangling body – the error that caused the courtiers to scream and faint, and a few – worse – to jeer.

Many though, were confused more than anything, and the gaze of the Court turned squarely on the executioner, who stood by the lever, examining his own hand with an expression of horror. He was unmasked, not yet having donned the black cover that marked his office. He was unpaid too, the coins to have been provided to him by the hands of the condemned having fallen below to be scraped up by opportunistic citizens of Ardus, as their bodies swung above at the gallows.

The Registrar hurried to the executioner and spoke to him in a rushed whisper. The executioner shook his head, eyes wide and astonished as he cowered at the instruction, and seemed at a loss to explain the impropriety of the preliminary execution, gesturing at his hand with a terrified expression.

In the confusion, Dean scarcely noticed Lilith’s belated reaction, only remembering her presence when he felt her forehead meet his shoulder and her hand go limp in his. He responded quickly, bringing a hand to cup her cheek and raise her gaze to his, patting her lightly until she awoke, before murmuring softly:

“My love, are you well?”

Her eyelids fluttered as she fixed her gaze on his and breathed slowly, nodding.

“I am. Only... I was shocked. It was so sudden.”

Dean nodded and let her lean against him, turning to look at Garth, only to find Jo abandoned beside the stage as Garth made his way quickly up to the stage. The Registrar was growing increasingly aggravated, and was gesturing wildly at the executioner, who still shook his head in incredulity, before being overcome with a horrified expression, and leaning backwards, hand clasped over his mouth.

Garth pulled the Registrar away and quickly escorted the executioner from the gallows, pushing him through the crowd and ignoring the cheers that met their passing, as the executioner was praised for his speedy extermination of the traitors.

The thud of steps on the stage behind them marked Ruby and Jo’s arrival. They each took to Lilith’s side, cooing softly that they might escort her back to her chambers. Lilith immediately pulled back from Dean, standing regally and smoothing her skirts.

“Yes. I find I am in need of solitude. I believe I am unwell. My love, will you see to the disposal?”

Dean nodded mutely, unsure of her exact intention, but was relieved to see her back as Jo and Ruby lead her away, Lilith leaning heavily on Ruby’s arm. He made way quickly after them, when the citizens began to throw fruit and stones at the dangling bodies, and met Sam at the foot of the stairs.

“Are you... what happened?”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he looked up at the stage, now empty of attendants, the further punishment of the offenders forgotten in light of the Princess’ speedy departure.

“The executioner pulled the lever too soon. Lilith fainted.”

Sam’s head inclined to the side and he closed his mouth around whatever he seemed unwilling to say.

“I’m supposed to see to the disposal, whatever that means.”

Sam paused for a moment, and then, suddenly gagged turning away from the gallows, before swallowing and looking back to his brother. His eyes were wide, and concerned. “The rest of the sentence, you have to order it.”

Dean paused for a moment as Sam’s eyes searched his face, before comprehending his meaning. “You mean, the dragging?”

Sam nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his brother’s, before raising a hand to his mouth and wiping it, as though his distaste were ridden across it. Dean snuck a look at the gallows, and the dead weak figures hanging there, dresses wet where they had pissed themselves in death.

He shook his minutely at first, and then wider until it swung in large arcs.

“No. I can’t. It’s... it’s not necessary.”

A stone scored a king hit and knocked Missouri’s limp head backwards in the noose. It fell at an unnatural angle to the right and the crowd jeered.

Sam nodded quickly and looked up to the gallows. “I think you’re right.”

He swallowed around bile again, and looked back to his brother. “I’ll tell the guards you want the area cleared. We can get them down.”

Dean nodded mutely as his brother made his way through the crowd, conversing in soft tones to the guards that lined the walls and nodding in Dean’s direction, who stood as straight as he could and nodded officiously. When the guards moved forward, he jogged back up onto the platform and stood, surveying the courtiers as they were asked to depart, and eyeballing those who seemed minded to stay. It took several minutes, and the restraint of a few members of the crowd who clearly had anticipated more blood, before the place was clear and he was able to slump in his chair and breathe harshly, turning his head away from the figures at the gallows to stare at the corner of the platform, eyes unseeing.

When it was quiet, a solider nervously ascended the steps and bowed before Dean. “My Lord, what do you wish?”

Dean looked up at him morosely, and then the bodies.

“Cut them down and retrieve the boy from underneath. Send them to Bobby Singer. Tell him to take them beyond the Wall and bury them there. He’ll know the best way to go about that.”

The soldier nodded and stood slowly.

“My Lord, there is a man at the edge of the square who has brought horses to drag the bodies.”

Dean looked up at him and grimaced, before murmuring. “The spectacle is over. Do as I say.”

The soldier nodded quickly and obliged without a word. As his men moved to the gallows, some going beneath them to retrieve the body of Edward Braithwaite, Garth re-emerged from the Hall, striding quickly to Dean and looking worriedly at the gallows.

“You’re sending them out?”

Dean shook his head. “They’re going to Bobby. He can deal with them.”

Garth paused and pursed his lips at the instructions.

“Does Lilith...?”

“She left me in charge. It... this seems like the right thing to do.”

Garth looked back to the gallows, in time to see the soldiers remove Missouri’s body, surprisingly carefully, and laying it on the platform before covering it with a sheet.

“I don’t disagree, but you might have to tell your betrothed differently.”

Dean nodded curtly and swallowed. “I know.”

The silence that fell between them was rough and bated, and when Garth spoke his voice was uncertain, and nervous.

“We’re almost there, Dean. You have to keep him safe.”

Dean stiffened beside Garth, who noticed, and stepped backwards a little, looking defensive. “You’re... you’re right to do this, Dean. But you have to be careful. You know that right?”

Dean didn’t answer except to turn away and look out to the forest, running his hand through his hair and nodding silently. Cas. Cas. It was all for him, but it was vile for him. And as he moved to keep him safe, he moved to destroy those parts of himself that made him beloved. This was the beginning, the inception, of a reign that would protect him. And yet it was bathed in blood, and violence, and cruelty.

Cas. It was for him. He had to be safe. He had to be.

...

It stayed silent in the forest after Dean’s departure. In fact, it was aching. It wasn’t just that Dean was generally noisy, and Castiel missed the company of his audible presence. It was that he knew that there would be no chance of its return, even the non-foreseeable future. Even if Dean had promised that he might send a supervising party, Castiel doubted very much that it would eventuate. The forest might take years to calm down, even if Dean could subdue Alastair. In any event, it would require Dean finding someone he trusted to visit Castiel – and there were few of those. Garth, for instance, would be required to continue leading parties, and his leaving his men might be a happening he would not be so comfortable with, and his leaving his wife even less so.

At first, Castiel fell silent too, taking to repairing his cottage carefully, and, when he could, venturing out to hastily build up winter stores. Dean had brought supplies with him, of course, and they would likely tide Castiel over until the main event was over, in which time he could commence his routine as usual. It was a blessing, for even though he had assured Dean he would recover, his body was restoring too slow to allow him to prepare properly, and he needed an extra several hours of rest each day to compensate for his foolishness the day Dean had left.

The nights were the worst, and Castiel’s mind betrayed him with remembrances of what it felt like to have Dean sleep next to him, hands entwined and Dean’s lips pressed against his neck. When he woke, he was convinced that Dean remained there, and his sleepy brain re-experienced Dean’s departure over and over again.

He thought on occasion of ending it. With his hunting knives, a rope, or merely letting himself be taken by the Angelus. Dean’s presence and now absence had accentuated everything that he had suffered a hundredfold, and he was reminded many times of the horrific dream that had driven him from his cabin in the first place and into Dean’s arms. It seemed his brothers and sisters were waiting for him to join them soon too, and many times, when he returned to the feeding post, he felt their eyes upon him, although none made to advance as he had feared.

He wished he could inform Dean of that, and cease his worry. But there was no method at the ready, and there was no more he could do.

It was four and a half weeks from Dean’s departure, when he was cleaning his gear in the house – darning his breeches, and scraping the mud off boots that he heard the tread of feet outside in the clearing.

At first, he was almost foolish enough to rush for the door. In the midst of the forest, the sound marked Dean’s arrival and his alone, for there was no other human in the vicinity for miles. The crunch, that he had grown to anticipate when Dean had stayed, and left the cottage of minutiae tasks in the afternoon, went to his chest and made his heart thud with disbelief.

But, a moment later, the unfamiliarity of the tread registered in his brain, and he fell to the ground immediately, the thud of one heartbeat turning to a series of panicked, disbelieving shdders.

Castiel crept across the cottage silently and slowly, drawing a knife from his leather satchel as he passed it, before sneaking to the window and peering above it for the sign of the intruder to his sanctum.

His prospective assailant, whoever it was (or had been), was sentient enough to anticipate his watching and was outside the view of the window. He dropped down quickly again, crossing the floor of the house and taking another vantage point, discerning nothing, and retreating to the centre of the room – best positioned for an onslaught if one was forthcoming,

The silence was anxious though, and the carefulness of his assailant panicked him. Triggered by a sudden fit of panic, he slithered quickly across the floor, back to the respite of his trapdoor and pried it open carefully.

It was difficult to raise the door noiselessly, but Castiel sought as best he could, keeping an ear open for the sound of nearer approach. That was determined for him, when, as he opened the door fully and made to move inside, he heart the distinctive sound a presence stepping across gravel outside his home, and traipsing up the few steps to his door. He abandoned hope of moving noiselessly, and settled for muffling the sound as best he could as he slid into the hide, keeping his gaze on the door as he pulled a fur above him.

His heart stopped when he heard the sound of a knock at the door, and a tentative question in a voice that he had almost forgot, but could never have misheard: “Castiel? Are you in there?”

Castiel scrambled from the hide with little concern for the sound of his movement, or indeed for his injured wing that he knocked painfully against the frame of the escape hole as he departed it, stumbling across the cottage, and fumbling with the locks with shaking hands.

The man on the other side of the door waited patiently, though Castiel heard his gasp at the sound of movement within the cottage and a muttered, thankful “Father!” that rang with astonishment and disbelief.

When he wrenched the door open, Barachiel almost fell forwards into the cabin, stumbling and slamming into Castiel, bringing his arms around him and clapping him heavily on the back. The gesture was foreign on the Angel that Castiel had known, and would have been for Castiel too, had it not been for Dean, but he gave no thought to reciprocating with a strong squeeze of his own, and a muffled, tearful: “brother.”

Barachiel nodded silently into his brother’s shoulder, holding him tightly for another minute more before pulling away, rubbing at his nose and wiping it against his chest without ceremony, ignoring the shimmer of tears in his eyes as he surveyed Castiel.

“I scarcely believed it all the way here. I was sure I was mad. And that I’d die in penance for my madness. All this time, you still live.”

Castiel shook his head slowly, lips pressing in a line as he surveyed his brother – so unfamiliar in the time they had been apart – and felt the dam of emotions within him, so long bottled and stored, shatter and spread forth a catastrophe of memories that ought to have been forgotten.

“How do you? I had long believed you were gone.”

Barachiel shook his head incredulously. “No. I do not know how, only that I am yet to deplete. Our Father has favored me, for whatever divine rationale.”

Castiel stayed silent on the mention of his Father, but stumbled backwards slowly until his back hit his table, and he leaned against it, heart pounding as though it might disprove the situation before him with a jolt of reality.

“How did you find me?”

Barachiel laughed, low and incredulous as he surveyed  Castiel with a hungry determination.

“Your human, Castiel I smelt you on him. Small hints at first. I thought I was mad. For missing you and the others. But then you...I didn’t think you had it in you, but when he came back to the City I was sure.”

Despite the magnitude of their reunion, Barachiel still cracked a smile and let loose a riotous laugh that send a cluster of birds in a tree outside the clearing scattering. There was an old amusement there, behind eyes that had long since forgotten it, at the mating jibe, and an unused warmth and teasing that sounded as if it had gone long unexercised. Barachiel’s eyes twinkled as he stepped forward into the cabin, closing the door behind him and shaking his head with awe.

 “How... how do you know Dean?”

Barachiel shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

“I serve with him, in Ardus. I am a friend of his, if you can believe it.”

“You are one of his men?”

Barachiel shook his head again, smile twitching: “I am one of his rank, brother. I serve beside him.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “You are a Slayer?”

Barachiel nodded lightly, and he gazed at Castiel carefully, awaiting the connection he assumed his brother would make. It took only a moment, but Castiel took longer to pronounce it, so shocked by the realization:“Balthazar?”

Barachiel grinned and shrugged: “Indeed brother. Call it a pet name. I thought the original might overwhelm them.”

Castiel stared at him for a moment, and his eyes searched his brother’s form, noting the small changes that hung on it after so long apart. The obvious was difficult to address, and Castiel did it with a rough gravel of uncertainty, even though the answer was clear.

“Your wings are...”

Barachiel’s eyebrows raised, and he turned his head lightly, as though he expected to see them behind him still. “Yes. Rather an imposition when one is feigning humanity. I rid myself of them some time ago.”

Castiel swallowed around an eruption of bile that rumbled in his belly, surveying the air incredulously as though his brother would re-materialize them.

“How did you remove them?”

Barachiel stared at him as though the answer was obvious, with a wry smile: “With an assistant… and a saw.”

Castiel stiffened and stumbled backwards slightly as his own wings thrashed behind him in horror at the prospect.

“That… must have caused you a great deal of pain.”

Barachiel shrugged lightly and jovially, clearly long since bothered by the loss. “Naturally. More still to see them worn by our former Empress like toys. To see part of oneself as a corpse when the rest lives is one of the stranger of life’s experiences.”

His shoulders jostled a little, although his gaze was still blithe, seemingly recalling the sensation of weight at his back as a distant memory. Barachiel’s eyes quickly flickered to Castiel’s own and raked down them, noting the torn apart and the clumsy stitches that still lay there, frantically pulling the skin back together.

Despite his good humor at a rancid past, his eyes darkened quickly, and he moved forward to investigate, fingers surveying the damage without a request for permission.

“You were attacked?”

“I kept the feeding up, after you left. I was stalked on the way back.”

Barachiel’s eyes met his again, and he nodded briefly.

“No doubt you know of the activities of the human, Alastair?”

Castiel nodded gruffly, looking down at his hands and twisting them together.

“Yes. He is the reason Dean is back in the City.”

Barachiel stepped backwards, and looked that the wounds bitterly: “It was you who rescued him, wasn’t it? After the skirmish?”

Castiel nodded dumbly, eyes wide as Barachiel appraised him severely.

“I wondered then, how he managed t survive. But the boy is tough. Too enduring for one so young.”

Castiel nodded again, eyes downcast. Barachiel stepped forward softly, crossing the threshold to meet Castiel by the table, and reaching out towards his chest towards where Dean amulet hung.

“I have seen this before, in training. He left this with you?”

Castiel didn’t respond except to raise his own hand to the amulet and twirl it lightly between his fingers. “And he has my blade.”

Barachiel’s eyebrows raised, but he was dignified enough not to make light of the significance of the gesture. His words were bland, but tinged with guilt.

“He’s in love with you.”

Castiel looked up and met his brother’s eyes clearly, and unabashedly. “Yes, and I him.”

Barachiel searched his gaze clearly for a moment, before smiling softly and nodding slowly. At the mention of Dean, Castiel’s face alternated twitchily between an expression of grief and fondness of him, and he hung his head, forcing his muscles to subdue. Barachiel moved again, so he leaned against the table beside Castiel, quietly enduring Castiel’s reflection of the severity of his circumstance. When he was sufficiently re-controlled, Barachiel sighed and murmured: “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent it, but not doubt you would have rather had him for a little than not at all.”

 “Of course.”

The topic changed Barachiel’s mood to a somber one, and they fell into a vague silence, during which Barachiel attended to the rest of the cottage, examining Castiel’s stores and furs laid out in the main room, and sniffing at the air occasionally, scenting the carnage of the previous few weeks, and the hints Dean had left behind – sex still rampant enough for Castiel’s senses, but tears and despair too, and the light breath of fear overriding it – a bitter aftertaste.

Even with the shadow of Dean between them though, the curiosity of his years apart from his brother and disbelieving elation that he stilled lived got the better of him, and he eventually moved from the table to stand beside Barachiel, who smiled in a pleased way at his proximity.

“How did you get past the wall, to the City? The sigils surely stopped you.”

“The City remains secure from our kind. I have an insider who enables me passage.”

Castiel nodded and didn’t press the matter, instead looking back to the amulet at his chest and tucking it beneath his clothes.

“How did you gain the trust of the commanders? Surely they must have speculated as to your origins.”

Barachiel shrugged and looked away as Castiel carefully replaced the amulet. “I brought the wings with me and arrived as a Slayer. They were too grateful to question it, and I’ve been careful since to act as if I am aging.”

He ran a hand across his chin and turned back to Castiel, eyes surveying Castiel’s tucked wings.

“The charade won’t last much longer though. They’ll suspect an oddity soon enough.”

Castiel looked up sharply and met Barachiel’s eyes, whose expression spread uncertainly into a grin.

“If you’d have me, brother, I’d join you again.”

Their gazes held for a moment before Castiel looked away and back down to his feet. His hands wrung at his stomach nervously, and he focused his energy into kneading out the shock of the statement, so unanticipated an hour before.

“You’d leave the City?”

“In a year or two. Our Father must wish us reunited. I was intending to move on, in any event. I had thought to the mountains, alone… but then I smelled you on him, and…”

Castiel looked up slowly to meet his brother’s eyes and they appraised one another for some time. Eventually Castiel broke it, with a small look to the side and a heady swallow. “Of course, brother.”

There was a mild reluctance in his tone that Barachiel was quick to notice, and to smile at, not failing to interpret the meaning behind it.

Barachiel’s mouth twitched. “I can watch over Dean for the first few years, and ensure that his leadership goes according to plan. When I am sure he is secure, I can return here.”

Castiel nodded slowly and looked away, sighing. “It is the sensible path, and I would be content to have you with me again. I am only reluctant that Dean would be deprived of his friends when he is to remain in the City.”

Barachiel shook his head slowly and approached Castiel, laying a careful hand on his arm and letting it rest there lightly.

“He would say the same for you, brother. You know he would. You have endured too long alone now – for my failing as much as any. I cannot let you martyr longer than necessary.”

A silence fell for a long time as Castiel considered, conceded and communicated his acceptance to Barachiel of his return. His brother was elated at the declaration, clapping him on the shoulder and pulling him into an almost brutal hug of celebration.

When Barachiel pulled away, he was smiling and his eyes danced as though there had not been such severity in the time since their last parting: “There is still much to be done. I am sure that Alastair roams these woods, and I am determined to find him and escort him back to the City, before he can do further damage. And your cave sanctuaries no doubt require maintenance, or was that merely your lover’s excuse.”

“They do exist,” stated Castiel blandly, struck almost dumb by the surge of elation that promised companionship in the coming years.

Barachiel’s enthusiasm rose by the second, as he stumbled through his plan. “Once Dean is crowned and Alastair is detained, I can come back here for the winter, and help you rebuild this place. We can watch over our brothers and sisters and walk these woods. Garth will manage things.”

Castiel considered the point a moment, before nodding slowly and acquiescing. Barachiel grinned again and nodded briskly.

“We can take to the mountains, or the coast. Whatever you wish. See the world again, and you can fly in clearer skies. I can return to the City in Spring, and ride the Road for a little longer. And once things are safe – once there is an heir, I can come back, and we can travel again.”

Barachiel stared at Castiel’s pallid exterior waiting patiently. When Castiel didn’t crack, and stared dumbly at the ground for a number of minutes, Barachiel murmured: “he does not wish you to mourn him, Castiel.”

Casitel sniffed and nodded once, eyes still on the ground, and firmly fixated there, as he imagined Dean, aging miserably atop Ardus’ throne with Lilith beside him, without his friend or his lover beside him. Could he enjoy the future Barachiel promised him, when he knew Dean had no such promise? More to the point, would he, in good conscience, even if he were capable?

Barachiel, as only a brother could do, sensed the dilemma immediately and sighed. “Too much heart was always your problem, Castiel.”

He squeezed his brothers shoulder’s tightly, and let his hand drop.

 “How about I let you think on it? The wedding is the mid-winter day – the forty-fifth, and I’ll be back in the City then. If you meet me on the Road the next day, a mile out say, we can ride, and we can talk. I can stay with you for some of the winter, at least.”

Castiel could only nod again as the prospect of an entire future mapped out before him where there had been nothingness before, and the prospect of a companion to fill Dean’s absence. It was insufficient, for none could replace him, but the thought of a home, and the loss of loneliness’ echo was enough to stir in him a fit of elation that manifested in a smile of assent. It was only an assent to a discussion, and not a passage, but nonetheless, Barachiel was delighted. He gave a whoop of joy and clapped his brother around the shoulders, making his way to the cottage’s cellar, where he located the last of Castiel’s mead, and returned with a bottle, uncorking it with his teeth, and declaring it to be their Father’s miracle that they were reunited and they would not be forced to endure alone.

 

 


	28. Is All

** Chapter Twenty Seven **

** 2013 **

While the group were largely content to endure Castiel’s silence, Greg had few qualms (or perhaps, few capacities) to restrain the hurt that accompanied the refusal to speak further. That manifested, in the first few days, in his silently accompanying the group to the tomb to carry out the investigative activities they had avoided during Castiel’s storytelling. However, his required tasks became exhausted (or perhaps, his curiosity didn’t) in a few days, and he was forced to return to the motel and endure uncomfortable silences with Castiel for hour upon hour.

It wasn’t that Castiel didn’t try to breach them with other discussions. He talked of Charlie regularly, in the hope of producing a positive response from Dean and enquired as to the operations of his “space stick” (as Bobby referred to it), which Greg referred to as “thermal imaging technology”. But it seemed Greg had hoped that it was the group’s presence, and not his, which had deferred Castiel’s storytelling further, and Castiel’s failure to volunteer anything additional took him by surprise. He was content to answer Castiel, but he was distant and uncertain, watching Castiel with too attentive eyes for a sign of what had caused the betrayal of trust between him, and venturing too tentatively with his conversational topics.

His sleeping was worse too – he fell asleep for short spurts at odd times during the day, only to find himself sleepless at night. He regularly paced Sam’s room in frustration at all hours of the morning, but never ventured further than a few steps into the hallway, always pausing, reconsidering and retreating.

Castiel was unsure whether or not he was grateful. It was true that being alleviated of Greg’s... interest, if that were the correct word, was somewhat relieving. It was not that he did not enjoy his presence, for in its absence he realized how much he did. But it was a relief not to be so conflicted about being near him, admiring his and Dean’s features, and taking joy in the small moments of elation that seemed to inexplicably race across Greg’s face when he caught Castiel looking at the amulet around his wrist, or watching him when he was seemingly unawares.

The origins of the amulet, since its reveal, had scarcely been discussed, though Greg was cautious to hide it from the rest of the group more carefully now, and he did scrutinize it more intensely when he believed Castiel was not looking. In light of the point of storytelling he had reached, Castiel was also uncertain as to how to consider the gift, knowing now that it was his intention that Greg should remain and he would wait to be reunited with Dean, if at all. Did its significance change in knowing that Dean would not, in this life, acknowledge the return? What would it mean to Greg as a result that was allowed to keep it? And what did it mean for Castiel that he let him, it being the most precious token of Dean’s?

The conclusion that arose and that Castiel studiously avoided was that he cared for Greg greatly. It was harder it each day, particularly in light of Greg’s new silent nervousness around Castiel, to ignore the fact. When Greg was uncharacteristically cool, Castiel missed his gracious smile intensely, to the point where it momentarily obfuscated his missing of Dean’s, and when Greg sat further away from him on the couch than he had previously, he was struck by the errant thought that he would wish him to sit nearer and feel his warmth.

It was not a betrayal of Dean that he wished it, for he still firmly believed that Greg remained within Dean. But he could not reconcile it with the unmuddied complexion of his memories of the intensity with which he loved the latter. Did it ruin what he felt for Dean that part of it had carried to this visage? Perhaps, that its quality had changed? That he cared for this Dean in a different, but no less careful way.

At times, Greg seemed struck by no such sense of wrongness. He murmured Castiel’s name in his sleep, and seemed to dream more besides that blissfully went unpronounced. His eyes followed Castiel shamelessly when they were near one another, and his heart beat heavier and more intensely when Castiel directed a word to him. At others, he seemed intensely aware of his behaviour and reprimanded himself viciously, with coarse mutterings, pained expression, and tight squeezes to any limb that found itself unfortunate enough to be near the clench of his fist.

It was difficult to reconcile his fascination and intention to hear the story continued with his obvious care for Castiel, and his determination that whatever was between them should be substantially resolved. What did Greg intend towards Castiel? What did Castiel intend towards Greg now that he refused to continue storytelling, and the dialogue was over – he had no reason to stay, other than waiting out the return of his Grace, yet he had lost much of his intention to restore it, only practising intermittently in the evening when he was not preoccupied with listening to the sound of Greg’s worried heart beating nervously in the next room.

It was obviously building, to the point where Castiel was sure Greg would no longer restrain himself and Castiel would be forced to give an answer. Sam and Jessica seemed acutely aware of that fact, and whispered to each other of the prospect of “a talk” happening between Castiel and Greg in the near future. Both were keen to make themselves scarce in order to encourage it to occur, but Sam was becoming increasingly worried that to do so might do damage to Greg. Jessica, curiously, was worried for the same for Castiel.

Bobby was stalwart in offering no comment on the matter, other than to stare Castiel down mercilessly in their few encounters in the evenings. His warning still tinged the air between them, and it made Castiel deferent in any meeting, nodding minutely at Bobby when he believed the others did not witness him to re-communicate his intention that Greg should not be hurt and his utmost commitment to that cause. Bobby’s eyes narrowed whenever he did so, and Castiel became increasingly worried that he did not persuade him well.

Still, while the storm brewed, the group remained quiet, and Greg dutifully retrieved dvds and searched historical accounts on the “internet” for Castiel to read when he asked pressing queries. When they grew tired of that, he sat with Castiel in his car and played him a selection of his favourite music, nodding along with the beats of each and staring directly forward while each played, mouth twitching on parts that seemed of significance.

When he professed to Castiel that  “the best ever song in the whole goddamn universe” was about to play, their gazes caught and latched and Castiel found himself unable to look away. Greg seemed similarly distracted, even though he visibly attempted to extricate himself from the situation, going by the twitch at his jaw. And when the first chords of the melody began to echo through the Impala, Greg finally succeeded, and hurriedly silenced the “stereo”, making a hasty retreat from the car, running up the stairs and slamming the door behind him. Castiel remained behind much longer, breathing heavily and staring directly forward, tightening his directionless resolve further around the solitary aim that Greg should not be harmed, and gritting his teeth as he fought to banish an imagining which rose unbidden, in which Greg had not looked away and Dean had scarcely minded at all.

...

** 1425 **

While Winter passed so slowly any other year, when there was something to be dreaded, it passed with ferocity. Dean’s only reprieve was that Lilith, in her haste to prepare the Royal Wedding to “make all other Royal Weddings despair”, was conspicuously absent from his company on most days and he was given free reign of the City.

Sam somehow wrangled a number of days away from the Palace’s library in order to spend time with his brother, and with access to anywhere in the Kingdom, Dean escorted him along the ramparts most days, talking wildly of cold nights in the forest and encounters with Angelus. Sam listened quietly and carefully, brow furrowed, but smiled, frowned and grimaced at all the right parts, such that Dean was sufficiently distracted from his circumstance. When Dean ran out of narratives (at least, those that did not involve Castiel) they descended into tales from their childhood, when Dean had convinced Sam to climb up a wall to peer into one of the City’s brothels (Sam maintained he was “ruined for life” by such antics) and the late nights in which Sam and Dean had stayed up late, Dean sounding out words for Sam who had nodded encouragingly, or shook his head carefully, and reached out to point out the relevant vowels for Dean to pay attention to.

“I’m not sure we could have ever imagined how we’d turn out,” Sam murmured, as he leaned back against the wall of the ramparts and looked out across the top of the forest.

Dean nodded companionably and slotted in beside him, crossing his arms and looking wistfully over the treetops, tracking the roll of the wind through the branches.

“Well I always knew you would be a hermit in the Palace’s library.”

Sam snorted and nodded in concession, crossing his arms in mimicry of his brother. “And I always knew you’d be a protector – for all of us.”

Dean shrugged and scuffed his boot against the cobblestones.

“Yeah, I guess.”

A silence fell, and Sam sighed softly, dropping his gaze down to his brother’s feet as they twisted and kicked at the stones beneath them.

“I never could have predicted it’d be a girl like Ruby to turn your head though.”

Sam chuckled again and nodded. “You’re right about that, but... I can’t imagine what it would have been to be without her.”

Dean’s lips twitched and he looked up to meet his brother’s eyes fondly. “And I’m happy for you, for that.”

Sam nodded in understanding and smiled back, before they both looked back out of the forest and cleared their throats lightly.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d end up with a girl like Lilith either. I always thought it’d be Jo.”

Dean grinned and scuffed his boot again.

“So did I, but I think she’s best where she is.”

Sam inclined his head in agreement and they both chuckled: “No one could have predicted that. It’s inexplicable.”

Sam shuffled his shoulders and nestled back further into the stones, sighing again and slowly sliding his gaze back to his brother.

“You know, Dean... this wedding, if you don’t want to do it...”

Dean looked across at his brother sharply.

“What?”

“Lilith, I mean, if you don’t want to marry her...you don’t have to.”

Dean’s gaze met Sam’s for a moment, before he pursed his lips and looked away, pressing them together in a tight line around a sudden swell.

“What makes you think I don’t want to-“

“Aside from the fact you already told me about Cassie, you haven’t been yourself Dean. I mean, you’re acting the part well enough for most people. But I know you, and Ruby does too, believe it or not. We’re... we’re worried for you Dean.”

Dean scratched his neck absently while avoiding Sam’s gaze and twisted it to work out the tension in a muscle that panged there with thoughts of Castiel.

“You don’t need to be.”

“Don’t we?”

Dean shook his head slowly and descended to gaze at the sleeve of his shirt, fiddling absently with a loose thread there.

“Cas and I... it’s over now.”

When Dean met his brother’s eyes, Sam was biting his lip and his irises shook with broiling emotion.

“I thought you-“

“I did. I mean, I do. But... Lilith, this thing has to be done. And Cas understands. We could never have been together properly anyway.”

Sam shut his mouth and inhaled labouredly through his nose, so that the air wheezed out of it in frustration.

“Dean, I’ve never seen a girl turn your head before her. Not really. And now you’re going to give that up? What on this earth could mean that you _have_ to marry her? I know she’s a little... forthright, but-“

Dean swallowed and bit out: “I can’t... it’s for the City, Sammy. If I don’t step up, it’ll be Alastair, and there’s... there’s something rotten with him. It can’t be him.”

Sam recoiled a little and nodded slowly.

“You think he’d be a bad leader?”

Dean nodded quickly. “Not just me. Balthazar and Garth too. He’s... he’s violent. And lately, things on the Road have been, well, they’ve been rough. We think he’s seeking out trouble. And the Angelus are getting testy.”

Sam brought a hand to his mouth and rubbed at it insistently.

“He’s been gone from the City for days. Balthazar is searching for him on the Road. No one knows where he’s gone.”

“And you think that, if you don’t marry her...”

“I think people are gonna die. And I think that... I think that Cas might get hurt.”

Sam’s eyes flickered up curiously to meet Dean’s and he uncrossed his arms carefully.

“What do you mean by that?”

Dean looked up to find Sam’s gaze roaming his face carefully, extracting the small ticks that evidenced the undercurrent of a lie in his words

“What aren’t you telling me, Dean?”

Dean sighed again and looked out to the forest, stepping forward and leaning against the ramparts.

“Cas... Cas lives out there, in the woods.”

Sam hurried forward and leaned out over the ramparts with Dean, dropping his voice to a hush for no discernible reason.

“What?”

“Last winter, when I was injured and the rest of the party was killed, I was bit. And I was lying there, ready to die. And then out of nowhere, the thing that was gonna kill me was stabbed through the throat. Next thing I know, I’m awake in Cas’ cottage, and he’s standing above me looking like death, telling me that I was hurt and that my men are dead.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open, seemingly at the story itself rather than the admission of Dean’s falsity before. Rather than leave room for question, Dean proceeded, stumbling through the story hopelessly and without the grace he truly felt it accorded.

“I stayed with him all winter, in this little cottage near the mountains. And he fed me and watched over me.”

“And you...?”

Dean snorted and looked out to the forest again, sniffing lightly.

“No, not even close. It wasn’t like that at all for a long time. He was just lonely, and I would visit him when I was on the Road. Give him something to do. But I... I cared about him, I do care about him. The way he talks and the beauty he sees in everything. You’d love him. You two would talk for hours and I wouldn’t get a word in edgeways, he-“

Dean cut himself off to rub at his left eye with irritation, as he felt the sudden stretch behind the ball which warned that tears were forthcoming. Sam’s gaze shifted to watch him but he said nothing.

“Cas... he eventually told me that... that he felt more. And I was... surprised. I freaked out. I ran away and left him alone.”

Sam nodded slowly but still remained silent.

“But I got halfway home, and I just realized that...he’s incredible, Sammy. I mean, he’s so powerful and strong and clever and... he’s just amazing and I would be a fool not to, not to let him because I was afraid of just how much more than me he was.”

He shrugged lightly and inclined his head.

“I was so scared to touch him at first. I thought it was against the law, that it was sick. And I was worried of ruining him too. But...”

His voice trailed off and he awarded Sam the mercy of not detailing the encounters further, content merely to lean backwards and lot at his brother, swallowing quickly.

Sam met his gaze evenly, and after a few breaths, rising slowly in hysteria, barreled forward and pulled Dean into a hug, squeezing around his shoulders tightly.

“You don’t care that... that’s he’s a he?”

Sam shook his head and pressed his forehead into Dean’s shoulder, squeezing him tightly. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry.”

Dean swallowed around a harsh cry in his throat and accepted the embrace, letting Sam squeeze him past the point of comfort and cut off his breathing momentarily. When Sam saw fit to let him go, he was tearful in earnest, and Dean awarded him a moment of reprieve as he looked away and Sam brushed quickly at his eyes.

“So... Cas is, he’s not protected in the forest?”

Dean shook his head.

“He was at first. He’s careful. He’s a fighter. But, the more the Angelus get riled up the more chance he has of being caught up in it. The last time I saw him, he... he was hurt. And I had to leave him anyway.”

His voice cracked and he raised a hand to his mouth, clearing his throat quickly and pressing his lips together.

“I was going to go to him, and stay with him. But when I saw, what had happened to his cottage and to him, I had to come back. I can’t let him get hurt. And if I marry Lilith, I can keep him safe.”

“Couldn’t he move to a City? If not here then another? The cities are safe, he’d-“

“It’s complicated, but he can’t. There’s no way. He has to stay out there, it’s his only choice.”

Sam nodded and didn’t press the question further, instead merely falling backwards off the ramparts and pacing slowly back and forth along the cobbles.

“You’re doing the right thing then.”

Dean wound his arms around himself and stood, still watching the forest and praying silently, as he had never prayed before, that he was – and that his efforts would keep Castiel safe, now and always.

Sam was content to let Dean take his moment, but he did move forwards and stand by his side, biceps pressed against one another, until Dean conceded defeat with a single tear and Sam escorted him back to the castle. They were careful to avoid being noticed by any guards, lest word get back to Lilith that he was back in the castle. Sam took him back to the chambers he shared with Ruby, and they dismissed the nurse there. Sam let Dean hold Samuel, and bounce him on his knee, while they sat in relative silent, aside from passing mundanities, mostly concerning Samuel’s eating and feeding habits. Samuel, as usual, was largely contended, staring happily enough up at Dean with the beginnings of a smile starting to grow on his face.

“He’s looking more and more like his mother every day, you know.”

Sam grinned widely and nodded in agreement. “It’s amazing isn’t it? It makes it even more amazing, being reminded that he’s hers too. I’d never have thought it.”

Dean chuckled and raised the baby to his shoulder, leaning him against his chest and pressing tighter and tighter until their noses were touching, and Samuel smacked his lips beneath him, as he sleepily fought to reach out and grab his uncle’s face, clearly still lacking the muscle intensity to do so.

“Hey Sammy boy, are you getting sleepy?”

Sam snorted at the reallocation of his nickname, but rose happily enough to fetch a blanket to wrap around his son as he slowly lolled off to sleep in Dean’s arms. Dean shooed him off though, when he returned, clearly  angling to put Samuel in his crib: “I’ll hold him. It’ll wake him.”

Sam raised his eyebrows but sat down happily enough, and picked up a text to read while Dean sat watching his nephew in silence. When Ruby returned home, Sam shushed her with a finger to his lips, and she beamed when she saw Samuel resting in Dean’s arms. He made way for her to lean down and press a soft kiss onto her son’s head, and whisper: “Lilith’s coming to meet you here too.”

Dean grimaced but forced a smile as best he could, jostling a little to readjust the (surprisingly heavy) baby against his chest. Ruby and Sam shifted silently to the next room and carried out a soft, whispered conversation for a few moments, before returning to the main room, where Sam sat down with his text again, and Ruby took the seat next to Dean, and stared fondly at her child, giggling with Dean whenever he adjusted in his sleep and blew bubbles through his lips.

Lilith was surprisingly sympathetic to the scene when she arrived, curtseying in greeting to Sam and Ruby, and politely standing until Ruby stood and offered her the seat next to Dean, and she took it graciously. However, despite Ruby and Sam’s presence, immediately upon sitting, she reached out and touched Dean’s arm, and when he looked at her, she pressed her lips to his without hesitation for a kiss. Dean closed his eyes and endured it, looking away quickly when Lilith was done and using the distraction of his nephew to avoid letting his attention remain on Lilith for longer than necessary. She didn’t seem to mind though, except that Dean’s focus on the child made hers move there too, and she reached out carefully and cradled the baby’s fingers in her own.

“Such a perfect creation, is he not, my love?” She didn’t wait for Dean’s answer, before she turned  to Ruby and Sam. “He is most delightful, and such a fine courtier he will make.”

She ran her thumb across his tiny fingernails.

“So small and so perfect,” she murmured, “oh, I am utterly enraptured with you already.”

She leaned forward, as Ruby had done and placed a small kiss on top of the child’s head. He wriggled in his sleep, but she ignored his annoyance, instead tracing lightly down his nose and cooing.

“But so lonely though, I am sure, in such a large world.”

When Dean looked up, Ruby’s brow furrowed and her lips pursed, but she straightened her expression in time for Lilith to look upon it.

“Don’t you think, my love?” Lilith continued oblivious, turning her face to Dean’s and blasting him with her perfect toothy smile. “Would it not be so delightful for him to have another that he can grow up with? A brother, like yours, or a sister?”

Ruby trilled a tense little laugh and Lilith’s eyes flashed towards her. “Your Highness, you must give me some time to recover!”

Lilith tittered back and threw Dean a meaningful look. “Oh, of course, I would not dream to suggest that you ought to bear another immediately. In fact, I thought perhaps the solution might be a little more indirect.” At the silence that overtook the room, she looked to Dean and giggled with a conspirational smile. As Sam’s eyebrows rose up across his forehead, she trilled again, and leaned against Dean grinning: “well, you are all quite scandalized!”

Ruby was the first to break the silence and nod her head deferentially, giving a small smile at her amusement. “We would be blessed, my Princess, and we anticipate it greatly.”

 Lilith reached across Dean and held her hand over his as he cradled his nephew, suddenly tense in his hold of the child, who squirmed and opened his eyes, looking up widely at the pair of them. When his eyes drifted to Lilith, his mouth twisted, and at once he was shrieking into the room, his cries scarcely muffled when Dean quickly adjusted him against his shoulder.

“Oh, poor darling,” cooed Lilith, though she made no move to adjust for the child, other than allowing Ruby to step past her to pick up her son and cradle him tight to her. “He’s probably hungry,” she murmured embarrassedly before racing with him from the room and cooing to him softly in the area beyond their vision.

“Well, my love, we ought best to leave your sister-in-law to her little Prince, don’t you think? I am sure she and her husband could do with some time alone.” Lilith threw another supreme smile at Sam, who merely froze under gaze and nodded compliantly, before he stood up hurriedly and showed them the door.

Lilith let her hand brush against Dean’s as they shuffled towards the exit, and stayed entirely too close when she turned in the doorway and offered quick thanks for the pair’s hospitality. “I hope to visit with your darling very soon. I think he shall become quite a favorite of mine.”

Sam nodded again, but a particularly loud cry from Samuel in the room beyond had him hastily abandoning them in favor of attending to his son’s needs. Lilith didn’t seem to mind, taking Dean’s hand the moment they were from Sam’s sight and leaning into him idly as he lead her automatically down the hallway and back to her rooms. She was fairly quiet, aside from mentioning a few arrangements for the wedding, and noting that the Palace’s tailor would like a fitting with Dean the next morning for his wedding doublet.

When they reached her chambers, she failed to let go of Dean’s hand though, even as he made to bow, and instead pulled him into the room with her, staring down the guards who deigned to look upon the sight of Dean’s entering her rooms without another escort in the vicinity.

One the doors were closed she leaned in close to Dean, winding her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his chest, sighing softly. She swayed from side to side, as though there were music accompanying them, and Dean let his hands drop nervously to her waist, where he stood frozen, moving with clear instruction wherever possible, but otherwise staying stoic and reserved.

Lilith was content though to let her fingers wind through his hair and down his neck, only reaching up once or twice to press their lips together in a chaste kiss. On the third though, she pulled back only slightly and murmured against his: “I know what you did, you know.”

Dean’s eyes flickered up to hers but he made no move to recall as she continued to sway against him, winding her arms tighter and curving her body closer to his in a languid line.

“Yes, with the bodies of those I condemned. You had them buried in the forest, rather than taken through the streets as I wished.”

She leaned forward slightly and nipped at the base of his lips, with a hint of teeth dragging along the inner side of his bottom lip.

“I did, my Princess.”

She whined slightly against him as she pressed forward and Dean was suddenly aware of the swell of her breast against his chest, and the press of her pelvis against his. His eyelids fluttered and he swallowed carefully, turning his head upward and away so she could not catch the quick expression of repulsion that fluttered across his features.

“Why, my love?”

Her tone was soft, but her words were sharp and the question direct. At his neck, her nails grazed a patch of his skin, sending a jolt down Dean’s spine that made him quiver at the wrists and ankles.

“They... their blood would have smeared your streets, my Princess. I wished them and their betrayal put out of your sight, as far as possible.”

“Mmm.”

Lilith leaned in again and tucked her head under Dean’s chin, sighing softly against his chest and removing one hand from his neck to trace the embroidery on his clothing.

“You are considerate, my love.”

She pulled her head away from his chest, and used the hand still around his neck to pull his face down into a light kiss, letting her tongue flicker out to taste him before leaning backwards slightly, and murmuring: “But you will not disobey me again.”

Before Dean had the change to respond, she had reached forward and pressed her tongue into his mouth, bringing her hands to the side of his face and pulling him closer. Her fingers curled and her nails dug into his skin, and her body pressed against his too hard, almost roughly as she pushed him backwards towards her bed.

“My Princess-“

Lilith cut Dean short by wrenching his mouth from hers and baring her neck, pushing his lips to the skin there and keening as he got the message and planted a few kisses there.

“Oh Dean, I want you so desperately.”

Dean pressed another kiss to her neck, and pulled away to use his nose to trace her skin, breathing harshly through his mouth to avoid the scent of lilacs that drifted off it and choked him with sweetness.

“My Princess, it is not our wedding night yet.”

She exhaled in frustration and pressed him back to her neck, grabbing at one of his free hands and bringing it to her chest, pressing it against her breast and squeezing around it.

“Kiss me.”

Dean brought his lips back to hers, and stood compliantly as she licked and bit at his lips, attacking him ravenously until he was leaning out of the power of her kiss, almost failing to hide his reluctance. When Lilith’s eyes flashed though, he pulled her waist closer in response, and turned to kissing her temple, where the scent was lesser and he could look past her, blankly at the wall ahead of him.

“My love,” he rumbled carefully, tracing the line of Lilith’s hips through her dress, “I desire you greatly too, but we must not be so hasty. It is only weeks now.”

He gasped when she pressed her pelvis forward again and all but ground against him, letting out a small gasp.

“My darling, I want you to make me your wife so desperately. I ache for you.”

She pressed against him and he, now feeling nausea in his belly, leaned back again, far enough out of her grip that  she could not immediately step into his space again, grinding out: “We must not. You are my Princess, and I will respect that until you are my wife.”

“Respect it or recoil from it?”

Lilith’s words were sharp and daggered, and her eyes narrowed as she dropped her hands from Dean’s face and cross across her stomach.

Dean faltered, mouth falling open and widening in protest.

“ Respect, of course. You know I love you.”

“Do I?” She huffed and stepped away, turning and stalking across the room. Alastair made love to me so earnestly when you were away you know – poems, presents and promises. But Dean, you seem to not wish me near you. Your mind is elsewhere.”

Dean shook his head hurriedly. “Of course it is not, I only wish not to intrude before it is my right. You are my Princess, my Royal, and I must still defer to you as a common citizen.”

Lilith rolled her eyes and whirled around. “When have you ever cared to respect before? The entire City knows of your proclivities!”

Dean stepped back as Lilith hissed suddenly, and her hands dropped to her sides to clench.

“Your women,” she spat, “don’t think I don’t know. One of my ladies, no less. You profess you love me yet you demean me so to my people. What say you to that?”

Dean faltered as he appraised her, neck arched forward as she stared him down and eyes darkening with fury. With a swallow and a set resolve, he rushed forward, lowering his head and bowing to a knee.

“My love, for my trespasses, I am sorry. I... I had never thought you would want me. It was but a daydream. I found solace with that woman, and others, in your absence. But my heart has always been yours.”

She sniffed.

“You never make love to me.”

Dean dropped his head. “I do what I know best. I do not have a way with words, like Alastair had. I am a soldier, I lived on the Road. I... I have never felt for another what I feel for you. I am terrified to express it for fear you would laugh at me and dismiss me.”

Lilith shifted before him and dropped a hand to his shoulder, pulling him upright, before crossing her arms and staring at him.

“You swear to me you speak the truth?”

“Of course,” Dean rushed out hurriedly. “I am... I am so awed by you, your Highness. I’m an idiot. I get confused. I only wish to not offend you. To not cause you to reject me.”

She hummed softly, but met his eyes with a softer gaze, and Dean took the opportunity to step forward and run a tentative, shaking finger down her cheek. “My love, please do not doubt what you mean to me. You are everything. There is nothing other that could tear me away.”

When she stayed silent, he let his forehead drop to press against hers and blow softly against her lips.

“I love you Lilith.”

She gasped lightly at the use of her name, and surged forward once to press a soft kiss against his lips. “Oh Dean, I love you too. Oh Dean.”

Her arms wound around his neck as she relaxed against him, chasing the taste of his lips and twisting her tongue against his when he acquiesced to her demand, feigning a small sigh of pleasure as she melted against him.

“Please, my love. I only need reassurance. Please, show me what I mean to you.”

Her voice was high and husky, and her breathing uneven, as she dropped a kiss to his chin and traced the lines of his cheekbones. “Please, Dean, please. I know you know there are ways to be with a woman that will not take away from her wedding night. Please touch me, my love, I can wait no longer.”

Dean gritted his teeth and kissed her again, lowering his hands to cradle the small of her back and nodding against her lips. “Of course, my love. If you wish it.”

He pulled her close against him and traced his fingers across her back, breathing out slowly and pulling his lips away from hers for a moment as he mouthed at her jawline.

She let her head tilt back and he took the opportunity to take the rest of her body with it, pushing her backwards so that she fell onto the surface of her bed, lowering her carefully so her body stayed aligned with his. She pulled at his hips so he was brought close, but he stayed as still as he could, not close enough to roll against her, instead slipping a hand between them and running it down her stomach and along the line of her thigh beneath her dress.

“Are you sure, my love? You must promise me.”

Her head tilted back as his hand found the shape of her inner thigh and he commenced running his hand upwards, in slow teasing traces that detoured off towards her hip as he came closer to the spot between her thighs, which she was uncertainly widening for him as he moved.

“Please, my love. Please.”

She reached up and held Dean’s face, kissing him fervently, until he could no longer bear the taste of her and he moved to her neck again, eyes scrunched shut and holding his breath.

When he moved his hand to the right place, hovering nervously above her clothes, she cried out into his ear. And her breathy sighs, so high in pitch and so feeble-sounding, echoed in his brain, even when he tried to tune her out and imagine the woods with Castiel, and the feeling of that beautiful body writhing beneath him.

It was Lilith’s first time being so touched, he was sure, and she was tightly wound. The effort to bring her to satisfaction was minimal, and she was sufficiently overwhelmed at the end of it for Dean to slide away and cradle her close, rather than let her attempt to reciprocate. She fell asleep in his arms, face buried into his chest, and smile wide in sleep. Dean was awake for the duration of the night, scarcely able to shift beneath her for fear he might wake her and the performance would be repeated.  To his mercy, it was not, when, early in the morning, they were discovered by her maid, and while Lilith murmured against Dean’s lips that she would be sworn to secrecy, she suggested that they ought to remain apart until their wedding night. The tinge of sensuality on Lilith’s lips at the declaration, now somehow more knowledgeable as to what to anticipate, made Dean’s stomach turn, and back in his cottage he threw up into a chamber pot.

Sam had waited the duration of the night at the cottage, said nothing of his absence though he stared at Dean urgently at every possible opportunity. Samuel, he explained cautiously, had refused to be calmed since Lilith had touched him, and Ruby had eventually dismissed him, stating that he could need a good night’s sleep. It was unusual, he said, to see Samuel so upset – usually he was so complacent, and his nurses said he was a most compliant babe.

“We were bound to have trouble eventually, I am sure it was nothing.”

Dean said nothing, nor did he think of the dark thought that pervaded his consciousness most wholeheartedly and with veracity – that, most surely, it was not nothing, and that distrust of his wife-to-be was stirring deeper in him than he had ever had cause to experience.

...

Barachiel left after a day and a half with Castiel, during which time he took inventory of the cottage, and made a list of items he felt he could scrounge from the City to bring to Castiel to assist him through the winter. He chattered amicably for the remainder of their afternoon together, detailing his ventures into the mountains and his accounts of various cities he had visited in the three hundred years apart.

“I always watched the Road, even though I left swearing I’d do it no longer. You broke the pledge too. I suppose we all did, in the end.”

When Castiel told him of his encounter with Gabriel’s body in the early evening, he fell silent for several hours, and spoke only when Castiel made his way to his nest in the evening, asking mildly if he would please draw a map for him in order that he might visit his brother’s grave.

Castiel obliged and Barachiel stayed awake staring at it long after Castiel stripped and wrapped himself in his furs.

In the morning, Barachiel was emotionally recovered, and insisted on inspecting the cottage for signs of its distress. “I think the City has a few tools that might be of assistance in repairing the damage.” Castiel let him make his list, and was happy to provide the invitation for Barachiel to return at any time he so chose. The promise, though it was not an acceptance yet of the prospect of their travelling together in the future, seemed to buoy his brother through the rest of the morning, and he farewelled Castiel with a hug.

“I’ll see you on the day after mid-winter, if you’re willing. While everyone is still drunk from the wedding, I’ll sneak out.”

Castiel acquiesced easily. It had always been his intention to attend the wedding in any event, and witness, or at least, hear what he could from his old perch in the tree beyond the city, where he had first awaited Dean after their first parting. It was finitude, even if it was not resolution. The prospect that his brother would be with him after was a comfort; it made the instance less sour.

Barachiel was cheery as he left the cottage, Castiel following him down the stairs and to his mount, which he had deposited in the stable upon his arrival. Barachiel grinned at him once, and made to climb into his stallion’s saddle, but changed his mind at the last moment, returning to hug his brother once more.

“We’ll get through it, Cas. Our Father will come for us. I know it.”

Castiel didn’t, but he smiled reassuringly as Barachiel turned and wedged his heel into the stirrup of the saddle, swinging himself up and over his steed and settling himself. He adjusted his weapons at his side and winked once: “Mid-winter, I’ll see you soon, brother.”

It was a warm promise, and Castiel felt it with anticipation, such that he was still comforted as Barachiel rode from view. Even in his dingy cabin, with its covered windows and its torn up floorboards, it was a thin casing of expectation around a trembling soul.

...

** 2013 **

Greg avoided Castiel for the following evening. True to their intention, the rest of the group seemed prepared to give them space. Or perhaps Greg had warned them. Either way, Bobby stayed mostly silent in his room beside Sam’s, rustling through papers and murmuring to himself as he tried to concoct the group’s account of the discovery of the tomb, obfuscating as significantly as possible Castiel’s involvement – at least until they determined what his next course of action was.

Jessica and Sam retired to her room. They talked in whispered  voices of Greg and Castiel, but it seemed they were in no doubt that Castiel could hear them, and were careful to speak in riddles. Later in the evening, when Greg had gotten up and made his way to Sam’s bedroom silently, Castiel heard the sounds of Jessica and Sam exchanging soft kisses on the other side of the wall, and Sam’s shaky question if Jess would stay. “I don’t mean... I just... If you want...”

Jessica laughed softly and they slid into the same bed, exchanging light kisses for another hour and breathing unsteadily and nervously at their new proximity.

Castiel did his best to avoid hearing the course of their time together, until they both fell asleep, breathing contentedly. But it was difficult, both in terms of his proximity and also in the undeniable sweetness of it, as Sam professed in a whisper that Jessica was beautiful, and that he wouldn’t have dared to hope that a girl like Jessica would look twice at him. She only laughed again and kissed him lightly.

Castiel used Greg’s laptop to distract himself, and then to amuse himself after the rest fell asleep. Even Greg, after so many nights’ nervous waiting, seemed to have dropped off to sleep fairly quickly, and was breathing steadily through the wall. Castiel worked his way through “Wikipedia”, which Greg had told him “was God” and Bobby had snickered at, accounting for World War One in as much detail as he could bear thinking about, following every link that was made available in the text of the article itself and winding his way through a knowledge of military history.

He was engrossed to say the least, and while it gave Sam and Jessica sufficient privacy in their room next door, it wasn’t enough when he heard Greg lightly moan in his sleep. “No... no, Cas...”

He knew he’d heard it the first time, but still, Castiel waited for the second cry before he felt justified to leave his couch and quickly make his way to Greg’s room, stealthily so as not to wake him unless absolutely necessary. When he arrived, he saw Greg stiffen under the blankets as his fist clenched around some loose sheeting on his mattress. His jaw clenched in sleep, and his eyes squeezed shut around a sight he obviously desired to be without in his dream, and he groaned.

It was deep, pained and twisted, and Castiel didn’t hesitate in stepping forward and shaking Greg lightly on the shoulder. “Greg, wake up.”

Greg moaned again and pressed his face into the pillow, blathering out slurred nonsense against his imagined assailant and twisting his legs into the sheets. Muffled into the pillow, he cried out in earnest and jolted, twisting over as his eyes flew open and he rushed upwards, gasping for breath.

Castiel was quick to escape him, twisting to the side enough that Greg’s forehead did not knock against his as he raced upright, breathing as though he’d been held underwater for minutes at a time. His legs shuddered beneath him, as though he had made to run, before he came to his senses, flinching when he saw Castiel beside him and falling backwards, shuffling back up the bed.

“Cas. Cas, what’s happening?”

Greg’s eyes rushed across Castiel’s face and his mouth fell open in an expression of horror as wakefulness was fully restored to him. Castiel moved forward quickly, placing a quick, reassuring hand on Greg’s leg through the sheets and resting it there lightly.

“I’m sorry, Greg, you were having a nightmare. I thought if I awoke you-“

“What happened to Dean, Cas?”

Greg’s hand rose to his shirt and he yanked it away from his neck, breathing in harried breaths as a few beads of sweat materialized on his brow.

“Did you see him again? What happened to him?”

“I did. Once more. Greg, I-“

Greg leaned backwards as Castiel leaned closer and yanked at the neck of his t-shirt, as beads of sweat began to accrue on his forehead.

“Shit, I-“

Greg leaned forward abruptly, raising his knees and dropping his forehead between them, sucking in breaths as deep and slow as he could manage, but triumphing in only rushed wheezes as he attempted to get a handle on himself.

“What were you dreaming, Greg?”

Greg shook his head into his knees and split his lips, which smacked as he pulled them apart with the force of the saliva that had rushed to his mouth in anticipation of vomit.

“Fuck, Cas.”

“Greg?”

Greg flinched away from Castiel’s touch and gasped out a small sob. “Please. Please don’t. Please just leave.”

When Castiel tried to move forward again, hovering his hand tentatively over Greg’s elbow, Greg jolted away more forcefully. “Leave, please! Please, just get out!”

He didn’t have the energy to look up at Castiel as he said it, but the force of intention was sufficient to expel Castiel quickly from the room. He shut the door behind him and hung on its other side, listening frantically through it for a sign that Greg was in need of further assistance. There were a few hurried sobs, but Greg suppressed them with a few steady breaths, before murmuring “fuck” three more times into his knees and he leaned forward and his heart pounded, still terrified by whatever he had seen in his dreamland.

 

 

 


	29. That You Can Ever Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! My most grievous apologies for failing to update. I was in Sydney last weekend for AHBL, and while I had hoped to update regardless, the five days I as there were jam-packed and I wasn't happy with the chapter. I think the extra week of work has been to its benefit, and I hope you all enjoy it. I promise this will be the last of my sporadic updates. This story is so very close to being finished (at this stage, I'm imagining somewhere around four more chapters) and I don't want to keep you all on tenterhooks!
> 
> Lots of love,  
> OverlordoftheBees

** Chapter Twenty Eight **

** 1425 **

Balthazar returned to the City a few weeks before the wedding, but didn’t stay long. He announced his return to the City by barreling in on Dean when he was being fitted for his wedding robes, ignoring the surprised cry of the elderly tailor who was carrying out a rather bizarre set of measurements of Dean’s thighs, rushing forward to clap Dean in a quick one armed hug.

“How are you, brother?” Balthazar’s question was tired, as it was muffled by Dean’s shoulder in the hug. When they stepped apart, though, his eyes were sharp and his body shuddered nervously against the floor

Dean raised an eyebrow at the man currently measuring the most precious of his ankle dimensions and grimaced. Balthazar’s brow furrowed in response, but he made no comment.

“How was the Road? Any sign of Alastair?”

Balthazar shook his head and his eyes narrowed.

“I’m guessing he hasn’t been back then, since I’ve been away?”

Dean shook his head quickly, and raised an eyebrow at Balthazar, who sighed in exasperation.

“Lydia says no one has seen him since the day of your betrothal.”

Balthazar grimaced and waved a blasé hand at the tailor, as a mark of his dismissal. When the man made no step to move, Balthazar inclined his head at Dean, who turned and stuttered uncomfortably: “You’re... you’re dismissed. Thank you.”

The man was aggravated, but mumbled a quick “Yes, m’lord,” and coiled up his knotted measuring rope, before scuttling quickly from the room. As he left, Balthazar moved forward and closed the door lightly behind him, sighing as he turned away.

“You think he’s in the forest, still?”

Balthazar gritted his teeth and nodded, wringing his hands together.

“He... he doesn’t have any real traction. Not now, at least, after you’re crowned he won’t. We’ve stopped the worst of it, but I’m worried that he’ll cause damage regardless.”

Castiel’s broken cottage flashed before Dean’s mind and he nodded severely, mouth set in a grim line.

“In the forest, I saw another body. Head hacked off. I don’t know how he’s doing it on his own, Dean, but this isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.”

Balthazar swallowed what seemed to be a hint of bile and paced hurriedly towards the window, resting his hands on the stone threshold before it and squeezing feebly at their rigid shape.

“I don’t understand his motives. It’s gratuitous.”

“What do you mean?”

Balthazar’s fingers tensed around the stones beneath his hands as he answered: “I mean if he truly cared about the City, he’d be diplomatic. He’d discuss his strategies and his evidence But instead he’s been so secretive and... unruly.”

“This won’t be the end of it?” Dean’s accusation was audible, even though he tried to smother it. Balthazar turned slowly, and pursed his lips.

“It has to be. It will be. We’ll-“

Balthazar’s eyes met Dean’s and he froze momentarily, before advancing: “Dean, I have-“

Lilith didn’t bother to knock to announce her entrance, and Balthazar quickly dropped his gaze and turned to her with a graceful smile of greeting and a sweeping bow.

“Your Highness.”

“Ah! Balthazar!”

She momentarily ignored Dean as she advanced and dropped a small curtsey before her solider, preening: “Back from your dastardly trip. I trust it went well?”

Balthazar nodded officiously. “Extremely. Their mistress sends her kindest regards, and her thanks.”

Lilith smiled lightly, and stepped sideways to lean against Dean and run her hand up his arm. “It was the work of you and your men, Balthazar. The thanks is yours alone.”

Balthazar swept another small bow in acknowledgment, and froze minutely when he raised himself and Lilith made no attempt to continue the conversation, only interlacing her fingers with Dean’s and smiling placidly.

“Well, we have things to arrange. As I’m sure you must. I take my leave, your Highness.”

He bowed again before Dean had the chance to protest and stalked quickly from the room, eyeballing Dean once over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him and promising him, with a quick look, a further conversation.

Lilith was less bothered by the quick mode of his exit, instead leaning into Dean’s arms further.

“I had hoped to catch you with the tailor, my love. Is he done already?”

Dean moved the arm she leaned against so that it wrapped around her shoulders and, with a wrinkle of his nose, dropped a kiss to her temple as she leaned closer against him.

“Balthazar and I wanted to discuss the trip. I dismissed him for now, but I can ask him back.”

Lilith grinned against his chest, as she reciprocated his touch with a light kiss to his jaw.

“You can _order_ him back, if you wish. You are all but my husband now. You are a ruler.”

She laid another kiss to his jaw before bringing her hand around his chest and lacing the fingers of their free hands together.

“Yes, right.”

Dean’s reply was gruff, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably as Lilith wound herself into him and sighed into his shirt.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, while her hands curled at the nape of his neck and fiddled with the curl of hair there and hummed brightly against his chest – a song that he didn’t know, or had any curiosity about at all – only the strong intention that she should let go of him soon enough.

Eventually she did, with a small smile and a whispered instruction: “I’ll order him back, to get you fitted. And then afterwards, we can take a walk on the ramparts, as we did when we were courting.”

Dean remembered no such incident – at least, of flirtation – but acquiesced with a small nod and a hint of passing eye contact.

“Whatever you wish, my Princess.”

Lilith leaned forward torturously slowly, and pecked at his lips with a grin. “Oh, I hope so, Dean. I very much do.”

...

Castiel kept watch over the forest for the human Alastair, after Barachiel left. But there was no sign or scent of him – even when he wandered through the forest on the clearer winter mornings, when he knew the Angelus were liable to be succumb to temporary hibernation. The air was crisp, and fresh, and should have yielded the scent of any human for miles around. But there was nothing other than the icy, empty scent of winter, and the trace of Barachiel’s journey back to Ardus with his men.

To take flight might have yielded a better survey, but his wing was not yet equipped for that. The flesh had mended, but only with a light film of new skin. Beneath it, the muscle still struggled together to integrate itself properly. He might be flightless for some part of winter yet.

He had been lucky to stave off infection, but the cool air seemed to assist – everything was less mobile. Even the Angelus, as worried as he and Barachiel had been that the sanctuary of the cabin had been breached, were less active than usual, and aside from a few midnight choruses, he had little to hear from them.

Perhaps he would have liked to, for he thought of little else but Dean so long as he was away. The amulet was heavy. It absorbed the cold voraciously and pressed it against his chest – leaving an icy spot that felt like the withdrawal of Dean’s touch, cruelly encapsulated in one small, metal symbol.

He’d imagined the worst already. Dean betrothed. Dean wedded. Dean bedded, all by a faceless woman with a cutting smile and ferocious intention. Even worse, he imagined Dean with his hand on her belly, as it swelled out with the force of his child. Forever bound and forever anchored away. He knew it was folly to revile such imaginings – if Dean could be afforded happiness in the arrangement, then he hoped that would be it. If he could even love the woman, it would be enough. He deserved whatever he could draw from the circumstance.

He felt nothing such the same for himself, however. Barachiel’s intentions that they should escape the forest and the city for the mountains or the coast were tempting, if only there weren’t Dean to leave behind. But Castiel was utterly anchored in the life they had shared together, and the preservation of the semblance of it. The thought of leaving the cottage to degrade, where Dean had sworn his life to him, felt tantamount to leaving Dean himself to degrade. Dean to age. Dean to weary. Dean to die, all in his absence. If he could even last that long.

There was the added concern that he was weak now. Barachiel, bless his hopes, had ignored it.

The wing was taking too long to mend. His body was valiant, but struggling, even to achieve human remedy. His sleeps were longer – moving from five or six hours to ten or worse, and he was drearier during the day. Unfocussed, vacant and uncaring.

There was an ache too – just a hint of it, on the periphery, as Anna had said. A phantom tension he could not quite squeeze out of his tightly wound muscles, and would not be drained by exercise. The moment he sought it out, tried to seize on it, it was gone with a shy breath. But as it hovered incessantly, he became certain it was there, awaiting its chance to snatch him unawares.

He wasn’t yet sure how to conceive of death, other than he despised it. The idea had long been engrained that he would follow his brothers and sisters into torment. He had cried and raged and cursed with the rest of them, and collapsed into sniveling acceptance centuries ago. But there was no numbness to it, as he had hoped. Just a weak denial, a paltry hope that something ought to change to grant him resilience.

It didn’t escape his notice that he had already had that, in the interlude with Dean. It was selfish to even imagine he might have more.

Barachiel’s stubborn failure to acknowledge it though might be his escape, at least, insofar as he could remove himself from the forest and endure the change in the mountains. They were expansive, and there was sufficient prey there. His animal brain might be sated enough to avoid return.

He realized it with sudden clarity. No, it would have to be. For the alternative was return to the forest where Dean’s men ventured. Maybe even Dean himself, from time to time, although the rules were against it. Dean’s friend, Garth. Dean’s young protégés. Dean’s captains and his trusted allies.

He imagined himself confronting them as a winged beast, mouth hungry and ready to rip their throats out. Dean mourning their loss with his City. Dean wondering, in errant nightmarish thoughts, with every passing body, whether it had been Castiel – his fallen one – that had dealt the death blow.

He could not send Dean’s men to him as his prey, or let the anger that Dean had been taken from him (and that would turn him cruel, in death) be the reason that his men left the City alive, and were sent back to him as carcasses.

He was useful to Dean insofar as he could protect his men on the Road, as he had hoped to do, as he had done for Dean. But beyond that, he would be a burden. And what use was he, with a broken wing and a shredded leg, and a mauled heart? He was a liability that awaited explosion and a curse to his lover as long as he remained. The sentiment that provoked his stasis was weakness, and would have to be stoppered, should he hope to do justice to what his lover believed of him.

He had intended to go the wedding in any event. It was a symbolic farewell, and a final closure. He knew that Dean would dread it, and would think of him and the breathless words they shared in the cabin as he stood before his City. And, even if Dean could not know, he wished to be there to support him in that selfless venture and to help him achieve his purpose – to keep his City safe, and his people secure.

He had waited for Dean once, in the tall branches of a tree at the edge of Ardus, to emerge from the City – not knowing then what he awaited, other than it would change his life. He had always intended that he would wait for Dean’s departure there too, to witness Dean blend and disappear back into the moving dots of the City and be absorbed into their number. As human, through and through, as Castiel was not. He had always intended to be there, even out of sight, but in body, for the love of his existence. But he had intended that he would go with little, and return to a hollow cabin, and curl back into quiet, unassuming existence.

He went with intention instead – to tell Barachiel of his plans, and to leave Ardus and Dean behind forever as he took the twisting, stumbling path into the abyss. Into the mountains and into abandonment – facing properly his Father’s absence and giving into it, once and for all. With any luck, Barachiel could be persuaded to stay behind and watch over Dean, in the City or out of it, and ensure that his leadership went smoothly. And to ensure he managed without Castiel.

He packed his belongings methodically – a few weapons, to leave with Barachiel, a little food and a little food to make him comfortable while he waited out the change. The cottage was wrecked so thoroughly in any case that there was little to bring, and a half full satchel was enough. His deadened, rational state was not enough to stop the creep of emotion, and in the evening, he collapsed into his nest and mourned what he had to lose, and the upcoming realization of that dread. At midnight, when the Angelus commenced their howling, he joined them for the first time, and felt the welcoming curl of their harmony around his staggered aching breaths. The sound was harrowing, but worse was the way his despair fitted with their melody – their song around him, a welcoming refrain. The sound of his own funeral.

In the morning, he shut the door behind him and filled his water skin in the river. There was only one last look to the clearing – he knew it too well to care for a focused farewell, and was empty now without Dean’s sunlight and laughter. The forest floor was cold and the last remaining strands of grass crunched beneath his feet as he commenced the solitary trudge in the pale light of winter dawn, towards Ardus and his final farewell.

...

There was a snowstorm two days before the wedding, and Balthazar failed to materialize as promised. “He’ll be holed up in a cave somewhere, waiting it out. He just won’t be there – you have to go through with it any case.” Garth’s words were assured but his eyes were distant and worried, when he met Dean on the morning of the wedding – passing on a small gift from Jo, who was engaged preparing Lilith: a small gold pin carved in the shape of a tree. Dean teared up when he received it, and Garth hugged him tightly before he departed, promising: “it’ll be alright Dean. I promise.”

Sam wore a new set of robes for the wedding. After their betrothal, Lilith saw fit to issue an instruction to the library that he ought to be escalated. His title had never existed before – he was Lord of the Library and Chief of the Scribes – in charge of monitoring the work of those who had once supervised him and reporting to the City on new advances in knowledge and documentation. His first official task was to oversee the written records of the wedding, and he wrote up the marriage contract himself.

The robes were maroon, as were all the scribes, but lined with red and gold at the edges to symbolize his ties to the royal family. He informed Dean that another set had been delivered to his chambers, for when the marriage had taken place – the same, but purple, marking Lilith’s coronation and his membership of the Royal Family.

Dean was fixed with a red and gold sash that Sam painstakingly tried to assemble, before eventually conceding and fetched Ruby from Lilith’s chambers, who tied it together easily and efficiently, and pecked Dean on the cheek when she was done.

“You look so handsome, Dean. The City is going to love it.”

She turned Dean to face himself in the mirror and adjusted his coat a few times – pulling it smooth across his shoulders and quickly tugging out a few creases. She batted his trousers too, though she had been right to tell him, a year ago, that the fabric would eventually soften.  After so many wears in Lilith’s presence, they did indeed now hang better around his knees. It was pompous, still, but less than it had been, and Dean was struck that he had grown into them, just as he had grown into accepting his new role within the City.

Ruby bustled mildly through the room for a little while longer, while Dean and Sam sat and stared pointlessly at their cuffs. She brought Samuel out to see his “handsome Uncle”, and gave him to Dean to hold for a little while, while she quickly fixed her hair in the mirror and pouted her lips.

“How is Lilith?”

Dean adjusted Samuel around him so that his small head rested on his shoulder, as Ruby met his eyes in her reflection and smiled blandly. “She is well. Excited, of course. It’s all a little too much – all that giggling. I have to confess, I was relieved when Sam sent for me.”

She returned to primping herself and Sam, with a small smile to Dean, stood up and crossed the room to her, winding his hands around her stomach and pressing a kiss to her temple.

She closed her eyes contentedly for a moment, as Sam held her, but when they opened and she caught the drop of Dean’s expression in the mirror, she quickly slid from her husband’s hold and around to Dean’s side as his face dropped forward and his shoulders tightened.

“Dean, I’m sorry, I-“

Dean shook his head and pursed his lips, looking up quickly as Ruby made her way to him with a concerned expression and a hand outstretched.

“I-I’m fine.”

He jostled his nephew in his arms and smiled painstakingly at Ruby as he held the boy close to his chest and ran a thumb pad slowly back and forth across his small, wrapped arms.

Both Sam and Ruby appraised him in a way that clearly communicated disbelief, but Ruby gave Sam’s arm a squeeze and Dean a quick curtsey, that marked her understanding: “I’ll have to return to Lilith – there’s less than an hour to go. I’ll see you in the church, Dean.”

She brushed past Sam and gave Dean a small smile as she left, but otherwise was unobtrusive as she made a quick and efficient exit from the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Sam sighed and settled down on the seat beside Dean, leaning against him slightly and drawing a thumb across the face of his son.

“Are you... are you thinking about him?”

Dean bit his lip and looked down to the child below him, eyes wide and focused on him, as if attempting to discern the complicated mix of emotions that rolled off him and offer some kind of comfort with his eyes alone.

“I hadn’t for a while. I mean, I tried not to. But, today...”

Dean trailed off, staring down blankly at the child, who reached out with a limp arm and attempted to grab the sash at Dean’s chest, but with such weak hands merely succeeded only in dislodging it minutely.

“It’s stupid, when so much more is at stake. But all I can think about is how I’m betraying him, and how I wish I weren’t. And then I’m guilty because I’m betraying the City by... by thinking that.”

He sniffed as the child below him withdrew his hand and gurgled up at Dean, tiny lips formed into a crescent shape as he made to smile at his uncle.

“You’re allowed to hurt over it, Dean. No one is saying you shouldn’t.”

Dean nodded quickly and squeezed his face around the rush of tears that threatened to brim over,  succeeding in stopping them before they hit the ducts, and made a pathetic attempt at a smile.

“Does Ruby... did you tell her?”

Sam shrugged and lean back against the chair. “I haven’t said anything, but I think she suspects that it’s... it’s hard for you. She thinks... that you should go to him, well, she thinks he’s a her. That you should give it all up.”

“Really?” Dean chuckled, despite the ache in his gut, at the thought of Ruby so rampantly declaring that he embarrass the Princess in such a way. The child beneath him witnessed the smile and cooed in encouragement. The gesture made Sam grin sadly, and Dean laughed again hollowly.

“I swear it,” Sam said, reaching out fondly to cradle his child’s head. “For her... she’d do anything for love, Dean. She did with me. Lilith told her that she didn’t think I was suitable; that there was a Lord that was interested in her.  She turned her down.”

He smirked a little, as if recalling a fond memory. “We hadn’t even... I hadn’t had the gall to say anything to her. I mean, I admired her, but... this was long before we ever...” He trailed off softly.

“Is that what you think I should do? Slight Lilith?”

Sam met Dean’s eyes and pursed his lips somberly, before sighing again and casting his eyes downward.

“I don’t think it matters what I say, Dean. In the end, you couldn’t live with yourself if you left the City. You couldn’t leave your men to be taught by Alastair and hurt on the Road, or Garth or Balthazar. It’s not about what you ought to do. I know this is what you will do, as many times as you have to to keep your City safe.”

Dean swallowed around a rise in his throat in acknowledgement and looked back to Samuel, tracing his nose with a light touch of a finger.

Sam let him stay silent until an attendant at the door knocked and softly murmured that it was time that they made their way to the church, and Sam took Samuel carefully and rang the bell for a wet nurse to come and take him. She arrived a few minutes later, and cooed as she took the child away from them, and kindly suggested to Dean that he straighten his shirt.

Sam lead him silently down through the corridors of the Palace, where they were joined by a guard escort at the gates. Beyond the doors of the palace, citizens unable to have fitted themselves into the church gathered, waving flags and cheering as Dean made his appearance and cast a small bow. A guard beside him snickered at the awkwardness of it, but was silenced with a sharp look from Sam, and lead them stoically enough across a crowded courtyard to the mahogany doors of the church.

Inside, courtiers and citizens rose upon his entrance, and allowed Sam to silently escort him up to the front of the church while an organ played a somber tone in the background.

At the front, Dean was informed, by a severe looking priest, that he was to drop to his knees as Sam took his place in the front row beside Garth, leaving a space for Balthazar, who had not yet arrived.

The priest mumbled and stumbled over incense and holy oil as he smoked and doused Dean with them, murmuring the holy pre-marriage rites of the City.

 “For service to the City. For service to the Empress. In love and in faithfulness, now and forever.”

He finished by presenting Dean with a goblet of red wine, which he gladly drank, and intimating to him that he ought to cross his heart. Dean did so, with a shaking hand, before standing and turning to face the City, who bowed their heads and murmured through their own prayers of thanks that their City was to be possessed of such a glorious leader.

There was a short intermission of a few minutes while the City awaited Lilith’s arrival, and Dean, unsure of what else was to be done, meandered down to the front row to greet Garth and the various Lords assembled there, with a few short nods of his head and nervous smiles. Each met his presence with a bow and a rigid recital of tradition to honor the occasion of the day, and Dean , who had not been briefed on the proper response was left to flounder pointlessly while each of them murmured before him and some reached out – embarrassingly to Dean, although seemingly not to those who did – to kiss the back of his hand and declare their allegiance. While Dean had hoped to speak less carefully to Garth and his brother, in the moments leading up to Lilith’s arrival in order to calm his nerves, the eerie silence of his citizens-to-be watching him wordlessly as he stood before them was enough to prevent any serious attempt at speech, other than the exchange of a few glances and inclinations of head angle.

Lilith’s arrival didn’t take long though, and her appearance was marked by the standing of a choir at the back of the church, who sung out in high reedy childlike voices as she was escorted by her ladies down the aisle. Bela and Sarah lead the group, while Jo followed behind, with a new addition, who Dean was not acquainted with.

Lilith herself preceded Ruby, who was awarded the honor of adjusting her skirts in the doorway, and holding them above the cobbles as Lilith dawdled down the aisle, stopping every few steps to curtsey and smile brightly at her citizens from beneath her veil.

Dean’s entire body stiffened at the sight of her, as she eventually fixed her eyes on him and advanced forward slowly. Whereas Jo’s wedding gown had been heavy and bejeweled, Lilith’s was in fact far less garish – light flowing silks that slung gracefully around a delicate frame and swelled at the right places to give her a womanly shape. Each soft inclination, which she was seemingly aware of, set of a delicate flutter of material so that she was almost ethereal in her movement.

Had he been in love with her, Dean would have been struck with beauty. As it was, Castiel flashed before his eyes, flushed and spent – eyes aching at Dean with a boundless expression of words that even his so skilled tongue was unable to form coherently. Then there was bile in his mouth and he turned away for a moment, coughing as he swallowed it back down and the acid felt as if it would burn a hole in his throat. Even when he recovered himself, and turned smiling back to Lilith, with the hopes that his quick visual absence could be explained as tears of joy, the stench in his mouth was acrid and nauseating.

At the top of the aisle, her ladies peeled off the side, and Lilith proceeded forward to Dean’s side, taking his proffered hand and inclining her head to their priest.

Ruby stayed behind for a few moments, spreading her skirts so that they hung in a perfect arc across the stairway, before moving to the side and seating herself beside Jo. As Dean and Lilith lowered themselves in a bow to the priest, the entire church seated itself virtually silently and waited with hushed breath for the pronouncement of their vows.

In the small silence that followed, Lilith leaned close and whispered softly: “you look wonderful, my love.”

Dean had no words to even respond, expect a terrified gulp as he raised his head to stare forward at the priest before them, spreading his holy book open.

His speech was labored and long, and while Lilith was rigid to posture beside him, Dean was fixated on the arch holy images painted on a massive canvas at the back of the church. At its centre was a ray of light, shone down upon a bountiful city, where citizens rejoiced in their Father’s graciousness – fresh crops, clean water, and clear ungated pastures. To the sides were smaller panels, adorned with the Empress’ sigils, superimposed over images of Slayers in years past dealing death blows to howling Angelus, whose tortured eyes burned red as swords were shoved through their throats – silent, yet curdling screams.

Dean shuddered beside Lilith and she squeezed his hand tightly, such that her nails momentarily pressed against his skin leaving a surprising hint of pain along the edge. When he looked to her automatically, she only beamed at him and stared forward, shuffling closer as the priest shakily pronounced.

“If you would, your Highness, I would now have you pronounce your vows.”

The City shuffled as Dean and Lilith turned towards one another and Dean took both her hands in his, heaving in a sudden breath as he met Lilith’s eyes properly beneath her veil and she bared her teeth at him.

“If you would repeat after me your Highness?”

Lilith nodded in silent and gracious acknowledgement as the priest read her vows for her in manageable pieces, and she repeated each with poetic audacity, looking coyly at Dean and manufacturing beneath her veil the precious blush of a virgin.

Dean’s hand twitched as the image rose, unbidden, of her twitching beneath him and widening her legs, gasping as he brought her to climax. Then his stomach cramped in revulsion and he looked down to their hands quickly and focused on holding the tremors that threatened to race there to his biceps.

“I promise, before God and his Kingdom, that I will take you as my husband, Dean Winchester. In illness, I will care for you. In desperation, I will protect you. In love, I will bathe you. Now and forever, beyond even death.”

As the priest turned to Dean, he drew in a shuddering breath.

“Your Highness, I pledge to serve as your husband, for as long as the world endures. To honour you, to cherish you, to keep you. I-“

Lilith stiffened as Dean dropped his gaze and cleared his throat and for a moment, the church seemed to freeze as a light hiss escaped Lilith’s lips and Dean looked up, with wide eyes.

The priest, however, stepped in quickly and repeated the words, and Dean hurried through them quickly, mumbling between the words in order that they be said quickly. “I will love you. Now and always.”

Lilith squeezed his hands tightly beneath hers as they priest completed the marriage rites, and pronounced them man and wife. Upon the words, as Dean’s knees weakened and blotches of black appeared in the corners of his eyes, the choir above them erupted into song – wailing out a melody to the Lord in celebration. Dean’s ears rung with it, and he stumbled back down the aisle as Lilith lead them, grinning at her courtiers as they cheered and clapped in celebration.

Outside, the crowd thundered worse at their appearance. The city threw flowers, somehow located even in the depths of winter, and cheered as Dean, presented with a fur, wrapped it around Lilith’s shoulders and escorted her across the courtyard and back into the Palace.

People reached for them, even through the wall of guards that monitored them, frantic fingers brushing past Dean’s sleeve in an effort to get a taste, an acquaintance with their ruler-to-be, and now husband (barring consummation) of the future Empress.

Lilith squeezed tight around his hand through it all, standing regally and inclining her head towards Dean’s, as she accepted a few gifts held out for them and bestowed a few waves upon their citizens as they made their way back to the walls of the palace. At the steps, Lilith turned them , and they waved – at least, Dean raised his hand feebly and glared dumbly out of the armies of the City rejoicing in his marriage. The swell of emotion hit him with the force of a massive wave off the coast of Rehin, and he stumbled a little as Lilith turned them again and escorted them inside the Palace. She stayed silent as they were lead to a small room, just off the hall, and were told they would be presented to the guests at the celebrations in a few minutes. Even in the small room, they could hear the chants of the citizens outside of the walls – screaming for the Princess and her new husband.

When the doors closed Lilith was in his arms, and he pulled back her veil dutifully as she leaned forward and met his mouth with her open one, twining her hands in his hair and pulling in forwards with a sharp kiss. Dean let her, although with almost no action on his part, other than to hold her waist lightly and stabilize her as she grinned against him.

“Dean. Dean, you are mine, at last.”

Dean only murmured a nothing against her lips as she licked at him, clutching forward and pressing her entire body against his with a light moan.

“Can it be night already, so that I may call you my husband? Oh, Dean.”

Dean gagged as she pushed her tongue into his mouth and moaned lightly, squeezing at his cheeks as she pulled him closer to her.

“Not yet, my love, only a little longer.”

Lilith hissed in response and bit his lip, only a little too light to draw blood but enough for Dean to feel the sting of her want and desperation.

He held her back by moving his mouth to her neck and sucking there, breathing frantically through his nose as if he could dispel the taste of her as his head became clouded with her scent.

“Oh, yes. Dean. Oh-“

There was a knock at the door and they sprung apart, Lilith’s eyes flashing as she straightened her dress and clasped her hands demurely in front of her. A moment later, Ruby peered around the door nervously, as though expecting something, and her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of Dean’s face.

“My Princess, they are ready for you.”

Lilith curtsied demurely and stepped forward to hug Ruby quickly, with a light giggle and delighted squeal: “Can you believe it, dearest Ruby! I am married.”

“To a fine man,” Ruby answered with an answering smile and a wink in Dean’s direction. “Shall we take him and show him off?”

Lilith trilled again and batted Ruby lightly on the arm, before stepping forward and passing through the threshold. Ruby halted Dean at the door with a sharp look, and dropped her gaze meaningfully to his mouth. When he did nothing, she reached out, quick and aggravated, and swiped her thumb across its corner. He got the message and raised a shaking hand to his mouth, quickly wiping away a trace of the color Lilith had used to blot her lips with, and nodding in thanks to Ruby. She pursed her lips and said nothing, but as he passed she whispered: “it’s not over yet, Dean.”

Lilith awaited him with a hand outstretched, which he took and Ruby lead them through the doors of the Great Hall to raucous screams and celebrations, and an avalanche of flower petals and other light fragments of a dusty substance that marked the City’s celebration. From every side congratulations poured – red-faced Lords and excitable ladies clutched his hands and swore their loyalty, and on the other, Lilith curtsied over and over as citizens pledged their allegiance. As they sat at the High Table, their guests burst into applause, and beneath the table, Lilith reached across and placed her hand on Dean’s thigh.

He started, and her gaze flickered to him sharply. But when he smiled sheepishly and swallowed, keeping his eyes determinedly on hers, she leaned over and pressed the lightest, most chaste kiss they had ever shared against his lips, and the City erupted in cheers.

At a Royal Wedding, in the absence of the Empress and Lord Protector, there could be none qualified to speak on either Dean’s or Lilith’s behalf and so the meal proceeded almost immediately. Lilith fed Dean bites of her meal, which he swallowed down with a sticky throat off the end of her fork, not bothering to feed himself at all when she turned to talk to her ladies on her other side.

Sam, at his left, kept a careful eye on him as he stared out at his citizens, and while he made a valiant effort, scarcely managed to capture Dean’s attention for more than a minute at a time.

In between courses, Lilith’s hand strayed further up his leg, until she was tracing the inner part of his thigh, in a way that might have, a year before, had him rushing from the room or face the prospect of severe embarrassment. This touch caused him to shiver, but there was no pleasure in it – only all-encompassing dread, and a sudden sense of wrongness. _This was a mistake_.

He drunk as much as possible, until Lilith made a snappy remark and his goblet was left empty by every passing server. A moment later, she was simpering and sweet again, and plead with him to take her to dance on the floor before their citizens. They lead the first parvanne, and Lilith, at every opportunity, let her hands trace his back, his arms, his hands, and stared at him throughout, with an energized and knowing smile.

He was reprieved once, when Sam playfully suggested he dance with Ruby and spare him the mortification himself. Dean gratefully accepted, and Ruby kindly insisted he stay on the floor for two more dances, before she grudgingly lead him back to Lilith to recommence their dancing.

He was stiff and haggard throughout, swallowing and avoiding Lilith’s eyes at all costs – finding himself out of time with the music, more often than not, and artless, even where Lilith was polished and smooth. A few of the courtiers tittered, when Lilith was not looking, but otherwise beamed at them whenever they felt they might impress her. And impress her they did, for Lilith was delighted for the entirety, swaying seductively with the music and laughing gleefully and applauding at the end of every song.

When the music turned slow, her eyes lit up and Dean’s stomach dropped as she assumed a position close to him, entwining their fingers and whispering as she passed him, in a slow turn: “take me from here, my love. I can wait no longer.”

Dean sent Sam to give word to the musicians that they would be ready to make their departure, and he lead Lilith up to the High Table as the music finished and the conductor cried, above the din: “We present, her Highness the Princess of Ardus, and her husband and Lord of the Realm: Dean Winchester!”

The applause followed them after Lilith’s ladies lead them from the room, and giggling, peeled off with Lilith to dress her for her wedding night. Dean was escorted by Sam and Garth to his own chambers, where a freshly run bath was waiting, and he was instructed, by a red-faced old woman, to wash and prepare himself to consummate the marriage.

Once she left, he promptly threw up into a chamberpot, while Sam rubbed his back carefully.

They left him to clean himself, and talked mildly outside while he dressed in his bed robes and cleaned his teeth with the provisions left for him.

When he emerged they were both sober, and clapped him on the back lightly and silently, before hanging their heads and staring awkwardly at the floor.

Dean cleared his throat around a gasp and moved to the window, staring out at the dark expanse of forest before him – the tips of the trees only just discernible in the moonlight.

“Are... are you ready?”

Dean didn’t answer except to stare at the mantel of the window until a knock came at the door, requiring Dean to make his way to the Royal Chambers. Garth farewelled him at the door, with a saddened expression, and brushed his eyes as he turned away and Sam took them down the corridor together. At the entrance to the chambers, he pulled his brother into a tight hug, and made a teary, muffled promise into his shoulder: “it’s for the best, I promise.”

They left Dean to wait alone, on the massive, curtained bed for at least ten minutes, during which time he fiddled idly with the knots at the centre of his sleeping shirt. There was one false start in which an attendant brought some wine in, and Dean stood up hurriedly, only to turn away, embarrassed when the attendant blushed and informed him Lilith was not yet ready.

He settled back on the bed and waited, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as he took in the detail of the ceiling above him, and told himself that from now on, he would wake to it, with Lilith and her lilac scent beside him. _For your people, Dean_.

When Lilith did arrive, it was with Jo, who unclasped her cloak for her and carried it from the room, her eyes hanging heavy and away from Dean. She shut the door quietly on her way out, leaving Lilith standing in the middle of the room, swathed in a loose white nightdress that showed the shadow of her figure beneath it as lit from behind by a few flickering candles.

Dean crossed the room mechanically, and kissed her before he lost his nerve, cupping a hand beneath her jaw and titling it up to him. Lilith reciprocated energetically and melted into his arms, pressing the form of her body close to his, and beneath the thin material he felt everything, and pulled away, gasping.

“Wine? They left us wine.”

He staggered over to the table and filled two goblets quickly, before Lilith could object and returned, hand shaking slightly and spilling some wine over his hand as he passed it to her.

Lilith ignored the blunder and took the proffered vessel, taking a small sip as Dean all but drained his and made to go back and fill it once again. She stopped him with a hand to his arm and placed her drink on a waiting surface before winding herself close to him and running a hand down his chest.

“My love, be calm. Let me take care of you.”

Dean stiffened as she moved into his space and took his goblet from a tremoring hand, ignoring the sticky touch of the wine that had bled into his skin. With a sultry glide, she slid into his chest and pressed a soft kiss of this jaw. With a light touch, she ran her hands up his forearms, letting her fingers catch on the material and dragging it up to expose his flesh at the wrist.

Dean hitched in a breath and Lilith breathed out a laugh, leaning it to press her lips against his.

“You’re nervous, my love?”

“Yeah, _uh_ ,  a little.”

Dean gasped a little as Lilith’s lips found his neck and she traced them there lightly. Lilith laughed against his skin as he brought her hands down and across his chest. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m here.”

She pulled back and brought her fingers to the edge of his nightshirt, pulling it slowly upwards and dragging the material across his skin. As she exposed it, she rucked it up and leaned forward to place light kisses against his chest, up each defined muscle and groove.

Dean held his breath and winced as his flesh twitched and recoiled from the contact, and stifled cries of displeasure, as she reached his neck and pulled the shirt above his head. The moment it was gone, he felt the overwhelming urge to cover his chest with his crossed arms, as Lilith’s eyes surveyed it hungrily.

“Oh, my love. You are so beautiful.”

She pressed herself close to him again and reveled in stroking her hands hungrily across his chest, twisting at the nipples and scraping her fingernails along the muscles. Against his will, and in some pain at her attack, he gasped a little, and she took that for arousal, grabbing his hands and making them fist in her dress.

“Oh, Dean. Now please.”

Dean swallowed and nodded quickly, clenching his eyes shut in a sudden will to have it over, and quickly yanked at her nightdress, pulling it up and over her head with no ceremony, and pulling her close to him before he could catch sight of what – he quickly realized – was her naked form beneath it.

He pushed her backwards onto the bed and slid over her quickly, aligning their bodies and crushing them together, before he turned and pressed his face into the pillows beneath her shoulder, smothering his harsh, frantic breaths.

Lilith clutched at his back and wound her legs around his, despite the fact he was still clothed in breeches and raising her hips to meet his.

“Dean. _Dean!_ ”

In his haste to be done with it, Dean barely even noticed the sound of the knock at the door, and pressed forward again, swallowing and growling to drown out the sound of Lilith’s breath in his ear.

“Dean!”

Lilith stiffened beneath him and pushed at him roughly, sitting upwards and staring at the door. Dean stared at her blankly for a moment, before he heard the sound of a cry and a scream in the hallway, and a frantic knock at the door.

“Your Highness!”

Lilith scampered to cover herself in sheets as Dean raced off the bed, pulling his shirt back over himself, and wrenching the door open to see quivering attendant, who blanched at the sight of his red face and wild eyes.

“My Lord, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to disturb you, but...”

Dean swallowed and shook his head, breathing harshly and ignoring Lilith’s question behind him: “My love?”

“My Lord, you have to come with me. Alastair has returned.”

...

Castiel found himself in the tree in which he had awaited Dean the first time, witnessing the swell of crowds in the city as they gathered at the walls of the Palace. He heard the cheer that marked Dean’s arrival, and then the cheer that marked Lilith, and the louder one still when they emerged as husband and wife and the City cherished their impending new leadership.

He settled back in the branches as he heard the sound of music drift across the treetops, and closed his eyes, revisiting his promises to Dean and farewelling him once more. He was his first. First, and always, and he had to cherish that – whatever now befell him. Dean had been a gift, and his care of his city – enough to leave Castiel – only made him more valuable for the time they had shared. The purest soul, the brightest eyes – Castiel loved him through and through, and he would stay close for him, until he knew it was done.

That contemplation brought on a kind of meditation that kept him immune to the scent that filtered through the woods, like a distant smoke, winding its way through leaves and branches. It made its way to him, sharply, rather than a hint that set his mind on alert. Instead, it was there, and his body started with such force he almost fell from the tree.

He hurried down the tree, gasping around the thickness of it as he came closer to the ground and the point of its approach – from the upper part of the Road. As it came closer, he caught the scent of something more familiar – ruined feather, acid mouth and thick, glugging blood. In anticipation of an onslaught of Angelus – riled up with bloody mouths and in search of further flesh. As he crouched beneath the trees, hoping that his scent would preserve him, but drawing his sword in any case – the image disrupted, with the sound of anxious hoofbeats.

A minute later, they rushed past him, and the scent clouded his eyesight with horror and he stifled a scream.

An unfamiliar voice rang out as it approached the gates, hoarse in its cry, but with a rumble of ferocity that made Castiel’s blood flash with ice, despite his frozen surroundings, and him curl back into the tree trunk, wordless with simultaneous regret, despair and hopelessness.

The man rushed past him, upon horseback, and yells again, drawing an alert from the walls and hollers of urgency.

“Quickly, please!”

The gates ached as the men hurry to draw them open, and the man gave a broken howl and a sob as his horse rustled impatiently beneath him.

“He’s dead! He’s dead! No!”

The gates opened sufficiently that he can squeeze his horse in, and a few men gasped and cried as they realized the identity of the other body that lay atop the horse, limp and ragged, limbs at odd angles. In the torn open chest, the heart was blank and unmoving – a cruel chunk torn from it in the shape of an acid mouth.

“Barachiel. No. No.”

Castiel fell to the ground, biting around his fist as he smothered a wail.

“No. No. No.”

A few minutes later, so cruelly, as he lay in the snow, eyes streaming, he heard the sound of a voice he had imagined he would never again, crack and break as it appraised the body that lay in the City square: “Balthazar. No. No! No!”

As Dean broke down in tears, Castiel dropped his forehead to his knees and let his tears fall properly as the rest of him became overwhelmed with tremors and his breath abandoned him.

 

 


	30. As Long

** CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE **

** 1425 **

Lilith caught up with Dean a few minutes later after Balthazar’s body arrived in the City. When she met him, he was hunched over the body, face not far from the cavity of his chest, quivering as he clutched the torn material of his shirt.

Alastair was back in the corner of the square, face shadowed and arms crossed as he witnessed the scene, as Bobby interrogated him as to Balthazar’s state and his grievous injuries. His face was blank and his answers were cautious and short, expressed with confusion and horror, as he curled back into the wall of the City.

Lilith went to Dean’s shoulder, wrapped only in her nightgown and a light cloak as she ran her hand across his shoulder. Even before the body, she was soft and regal, murmuring only: “my love?” before Dean sobbed loudly and leaned closer to the body.

A crowd of men and a few citizens heading home from the wedding party had gathered to witness the spectacle, and she left Dean a moment to dismiss them with a haughty glare, despite her loose uncoiled hair, and her face, scrubbed clean of rouge and powder.

As they shuffled off, she returned to Dean and hovered carefully over his shoulder. He recoiled from her as he reached for him again, and she brought her arm back to her chest and crossed her arms there.

“Watchman?”

Bobby started and hurried over to her, leaving Alastair to hover in the darkness, jaw gritted shut around a grimace.

“Can you arrange for this man to be taken to the infirmary? I will have a temporary tomb set up in the Grand Hall until we can plan for a funeral.”

Bobby nodded gruffly and made to move away, but Lilith paused him with an uncharacteristic touch to his arm. “Would you also have the Slayer Alastair escorted to my chambers, with a guard of three or four? I wish to speak with him.”

Her eyes caught Bobby’s as he froze for a second under the odd order, before nodding again and departing, barking some orders at his boys, in various states of dress depending on their attendance at the wedding celebrations. They rushed off in various directions to obey his orders and a few made their way to Alastair, and instructed them to attend Lilith’s chambers. His eyes flickered over to Lilith nervously, and when he made to move in protest, Bobby’s men subdued him and escorted him quietly from the scene. Dean lay still over the body as they left and Lilith stood beyond him, awaiting the arrival of the City’s doctors.

His sobs gave way to something lighter as Bobby returned to hover beyond him, arms folded over themselves. His mouth opened and shut several times as he watched Dean trace over Balthazar’s body, hands trembling as though he thought he could sew closed the mortal wound at his chest and clear away the blood and guts with a simple touch.

Lilith eventually made the move closer, kneeling beside Dean, and reaching a soft hand to Balthazar’s eyelids, to close them over the dull irises that stared up at the starry ceiling. Dean watched her hand as it moved and then fell against her slightly, and she let her hand surround his shoulders as he gagged and covered his mouth.

As the City’s doctors arrived, she pulled him backwards carefully and allowed them to wrap the body in a sheet, picking it up and laying it on a stretcher before escorting it, with morose faces, back to the City.

As it left, Dean turned to watch, and made to move to follow it, but his legs were weak and he stumbled forward onto the cobbles of the street, balancing on his hands and hacking. While Lilith moved to touch him and comfort him, when he recoiled from her, she looked helplessly to Bobby.

“Watchman, can you please take my husband? He needs a drink. I need to speak to the Slayer.”

She stood slowly and steadily, and watched as Bobby advanced and wrenched Dean up by the armpits, dragging him back towards his office without ceremony, as Dean’s legs jerked beneath him in attempt to make the move himself. In his office, he dumped Dean unceremoniously into a chair and proceeded to return beneath his desk and extricate his hardest liquor. Dean was awarded a portion far larger than was strictly necessary to offer a momentary numbing to the sensation, but nonetheless he took and swallowed it enthusiastically, only to suffer for it a moment later when his belly rejected the sudden onslaught and made way to force it back up. Bobby rose from his chair and crossed around his desk to clap him on the back as he forced himself to swallow down the bile.

“Just breathe, son. Let it pass.”

It did momentarily, until tears rose in its place, and Dean let his head drop forwards, catching it on the heel of his hands and pressing his eyeballs into it to stop the flow. Bobby stood beside him and held a hand tight around his bicep until the worst of it passed, before pouring him another drink and thudding it in front of him, and re-taking his seat, leaning forward to stare at Dean.

“Son, I know you’re upset. We all are, but I need to ask you somethin’.”

Dean nodded while biting his lips, holding his jaw tight to prevent the tremble there and fixing his gaze on Bobby with determination.

“Yeah.”

Whatever Bobby’s question was, it didn’t receive an answer, or even make inroads into seeking one, for as Dean leaned forward, face set with determination to see the event through, there was a soft knock at the door of Bobby’s office – not from the City square but from the wall – and a quiet, cracked call: “Dean. Please. Let me in.”

...

Castiel, upon hearing Dean’s voice, became mad with the sudden intention to be near him. The men patrolling the walls had been distracted by Barachiel – _Balthazar’s_ \- arrival, enough that he was able to rush, covered in his fur to the wall of the City and lean close, listening for a sign of the tale that betrayed the reason for his brother’s fall.

There was little, with men only murmuring in quiet voices as they arranged for the body to be escorted elsewhere – mostly drowned out by Dean’s cries as he hung over it and swore his anger to Castiel’s father.

In the corner, the rough-voiced man – Bobby, Castiel now assumed – interrogated the arrival, Alastair, with an explanation for Balthazar’s state.

“You found him?”

“It was… fortuitous. I heard his shout when I was half a mile away. When I arrived he was fighting it off, but when I went to help – it caught him.”

Bobby cleared his throat gruffly and huffed. “And you killed it?”

“Knife through it’s back. It was too focused on him. He was bleeding out. I rode here as fast as I could, but-“

There were a few screams up in the City as the news spread to guests leaving the wedding celebrations, and Bobby switched tact as the sense of rising panic grew.

“You keep your head down, and don’t say anythin’. The Royals need to decide how to deal with this.”

Alastair clicked his tongue, and said nothing, but there was rebelliousness ridden in his silence, and Castiel had no doubt he intended to do no such thing in the remaining hours of night. There was a crunch as the woman – Lilith called for Bobby and he departed to receive her instructions.

Movement at the wall had Castiel forced to move around it, and take cover under a tree near the wall as a few soldiers ran across its ramparts, calling for aid and hastily spreading the word of Barachiel’s death. There were a few hurried conversations above him, and Castiel was forced to remain in place for some time, pulling his fur close around him and staying as still as possible until the voices eventually received instructions to take and guard Alastair in the Princess’ rooms.

Once they departed, Castiel hurried back to the wall, anxious for a sign of Dean’s whereabouts. At first, he thought him entirely lost, for the area was almost entirely silent, and the sound of concentration and horror concentrated close to the City. But he heard the sound of Dean taking a shaky breath from behind a small doorway to the left of the main gates and the man, Bobby, reassuring him and pouring a liquid.

He listened to the conversation for a little, in order to ensure there were no other guests before making his decision. Barachiel was dead, and his Grace could no longer recover. In a matter of hours, or days, he would be a danger to the City and its inhabitants.

Castiel knew that he had assistants inside the City – perhaps even the man Alastair was one – for he had brought Barachiel through the gates without incident, despite the fact that they were warded. But he was wary to trust them to recover his body in time, if they even knew what was to be become of it.  He could not be certain that Dean had any idea, either. Barachiel had promised that he would speak with him, but perhaps his death had interfered with that intention. In any event, for the safety of the City, the risk could not be borne.

The question was how best to approach Dean and convey the warning and Castiel’s intention to take the body and mutilate it, that his brother might have some peace in the interim of reassembly. Bobby was a companion of Dean’s, he knew. But there was no certainty that he could be trusted against horror at Castiel’s form. Even the most understanding, Castiel was certain, would balk at him. He was a shadow of horrors that had been inflicted on the City for years – that had claimed a large part of Bobby’s life, and many of those in his experience.

Still, the risk that Dean would depart from the walls was significant too. Castiel needed Dean present when he attempted to breach the boundary – another might kill him on sight, before Dean had the chance to speak for him, or miscommunicate his message in disbelief as to its contents.

The only passage then was to minimize the danger by surveying the area, and Castiel did so by returning to hug the wall, listening for the sign of other attendances in the square. The City was strangely hushed, presumably the calm before the news broke more widely. And whatever Alastair intended to do, he was at least departed from the central area.

Resolved, Castiel hurried quickly back across the wall, wrenching his fur up around his shoulders and flattening his wings against his back – he had fooled Dean once with his presentation, and in the shadows it would be sufficient, provided his appearance from the forest did not provoke too great a suspicion.

It took more than one mustering of nerves to raise his fist to the door, and his first knocks were so shaky that they went unnoticed, even in the heavy silence of the room beyond. When there was no response on his second attempt, he mustered the energy to murmur out against the door – his voice cracking even despite the lack of volume behind it. “Dean. Please. Let me in.”

There was a scrape and then a bated silence on the other side of the door. A murmur of “what?” followed, which seemed to come simultaneously from both men. Then, Dean’s voice suddenly grew in volume, and his urgent footsteps lead to the other side of the door.

“Bobby, unlock it quickly!”

“What?”

“Unlock the door!”

Castiel collapsed forward against it as Bobby hurriedly rushed forward and jostled with the keys at his waist. Moments later, the door creaked open, pushing Castiel off it and Dean tumbled out, eyes wide and arms already outstretched.

“Cas?”

Castiel didn’t even consider Bobby’s presence when he leaned forward into Dean’s embrace – letting one arm swing around his neck and the other around his waist.

“Oh God, Cas.”

Castiel had little presence of mind other than to lean into the touch, murmuring weak nonsense as Dean crowded him.

“Dean? What’s-?”

Dean pulled back hastily, suddenly aware of the desperate tenderness with which he held Castiel and sniffed.

“Cas, do you know anything about…?”

“I saw his body arrive. I was here to meet him.”

“You what?”

Dean froze and stared, even in the darkness, with incredulity and incomprehension at the unexpected revelation.

“Dean, who the hell-“ Behind Dean, Bobby  advanced slowly and cautiously, unplacated by Dean’s obvious recognition of Castiel.

“We need to talk. Immediately.”

“What-“

“Boy, who is this?”

Bobby’s bark was enough to momentarily startle Dean out of his inquisition, and he turned quickly and gestured feebly towards Castiel: “Cas. He’s uh… friend of mine from another City. Shit, Cas, we need to get you inside now.”

Castiel stayed steadfast as Dean reached for his arm to lead him forward past the threshold.

“You know I can’t-“

With aggravation, Dean reached forwards and grabbed for a knife at Castiel’s waist.

“Balthazar’s just shown up with his heart ripped out, and you think I’m letting you stay out here? Get inside.”

“Dean-“

Bobby blocked the doorway as Dean tugged Castiel forward and back towards the door the City.

“I aínt lettin’no stranger in, boy. You best start explainin’.”

“Bobby-“

“Now.”

Dean dropped his hold from Castiel’s forearm, too delayed, and the movement caught Bobby’s eye. His frown deepened and he let his hand drop to his own waist, twisting fingers around a small blade there.

“Bobby. He’s a friend.”

 

Bobby glared and said nothing.

Dean sighed in response, exasperated, and leaned forward against the wall.

“Last winter, you know how I survived out there. Cas… Cas had a hand in that. I owe him my life. He needs to come in.”

There was a flicker across Bobby’s face as some kind of recognition hit the mark hesitated at the threshold and Bobby’ hesitated and his hand loosened around the blade.

“Please. I promise. I can vouch. What reason do you have not to trust me?”

Bobby was still for a moment, but an eyebrow raised and he stepped past silently to allow Castiel through. Castiel paused at the threshold, and the small pause caught Bobby’s eye. Dean noticed the pause too, and quickly turned to Bobby - speaking in a hushed voice. “Can you check the coast is clear? I need to get Cas through the City.” Bobby nodded gruffly but stared at Castiel suspiciously as he departed.  Dean cleared his throat quickly, as he raised his hand, armed with a knife, and carved a small imperfection into one of the sigils and Castiel quickly hurried forward. Dean followed, and shut and locked the door quickly behind him, locking it and holding Bobby’s keys out for him when he returned.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, but with no contact, but close enough that Castiel could feel the tremble of Dean’s body vibrating through the floor as he stood beside him.

“It’s empty.”

Dean grimaced and clapped Bobby on the shoulder in thanks. “I’ll tell you more later, Bobby. I promise. Thank you.”

Bobby pursed his lips and reattached to the keys.

“Best you don’t, boy. I’d rather know nothin’ about whatever this is.”

He gestured vaguely to Castiel and turned before Dean could make any further comment – indicating vaguely to the door and turning away. “Go now before the City fills up. I hope you know what you’re doin’.”

Dean wrenched Castiel’s fur around his shoulders and took him by the hand as he lead him at a brisk walk through the City. His grip was tight and determined, but even n the frantic movement, there was a tender touch – a stroke of Dean’s thumb across the back of Castiel’s hand that had its hairs rising and his body responding with a rejoicing in ignorance of the fact that the touch was but a temporary tease of what had already been lost.

Dean was silent, apart from telling Castiel to “keep your head down” and tugging him along with the rushed breaths of exertion.

The streets were cobbled and winding and they moved along the wall to a far end of the City, past sleeping houses and down empty alleys barely lit with starlight. The pace Dean kept meant neither had time to stumble on the uneven surface, yet it felt precarious. The whole circumstance felt tenuous. He was inside a City of hostility to his kind.

Dean lead them to a small unassuming cottage on the edge of the City, sandwiched between a leather worker’s and another, slightly larger home. He wrenched the door open quickly and pushed Castiel inside, before hurriedly turning and locking the door behind him. Then he turned to the windows, pulling hanging pieces of material across the transparent areas to hide them, before taking Castiel and leading him to a smaller room, with a small bed covered with a messy assembly of clothes.

Dean pulled him into a tight embrace the moment they were assuredly alone and breathed out in a heavy gasp against his skin.

“God. Cas. Oh God.”

Castiel wound his arms back around him and squeezed as tight as he could, letting Dean claw away his robe to fist his fingers in Castiel’s feathers – hands trembling as he quickly re-learned them. The quiver spread to Castiel’s own muscles, until his wings were spasming with the exertion of the reunion and the terror that rode their veins at the sight that had brought them back together.

“Dean-“

Dean silenced Castiel by pulling away and wrenching him forward into a tight, bruising kiss. It was momentary, and more pain than pleasure, but after the expectation that he would be forever deprived of it, it was enough to bear and he found himself returning the force of the gesture anxiously.

“Shit, Cas. I’m so sorry. I-“

Dean’s fingers descended frantically to his wings and skated along the injuries there, searching for signs of danger. When his fingers found the stitches he hissed and withdrew as though branded by them and moved his hands to cradle Castiel’s cheeks.

“No. No no no. Not now.”

Castiel hurried forward and kissed Dean again as his mouth clawed its way around a cry, and brought Dean’s arms to loop around his neck and held him close. Dean let himself be swept in it, though his core started to tremble fitfully against Castiel’s, weakening slowly as he let Castiel bear his weight.

It became too much quickly and Castiel lowered himself gracelessly to the surface of Dean’s bed, letting Dean wind around him and clutching him tight.

“Dean, please you have to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

Dean ignored the plea momentarily to reach forward again and wind his fingers in Castiel’s hair, gasping as he drew another kiss from him and gagging as he withdrew, eyes dropping, before his voice cracked.

“God, Cas. Balthazar, he-“

“We have to get him from the City.”

Even in the fit of their reunion, the abrupt unexpectedness of Castiel’s statement was enough to jolt Dean to attention, and he looked up hurriedly, shoulders raising with a sudden tension.

“What?”

Castiel surveyed Dean’s face quickly, although the confusion was already palpably obvious, though Dean’s lip began to tremble slightly as his mind started putting the pieces together.

“Dean, I-“

Castiel hung his head and reached for Dean’s hands, clutching them in his own and squeezing. “Balthazar… he was an Angel. He lived with me in the forest once, with Gabriel and Anna. He was one of the protectors of the Road.”

Dean blinked in disbelief, before his hands went limp in Castiel’s.

“What?”

“I didn’t know, when you spoke of him. I thought he was dead. His name is Barachiel. He is my brother.”

Castiel couldn’t help but fail to restrain the rise in his voice when he admitted the tense of the reference – Barachiel: he was, but no more. Dean was wrapped around him in an instant, whispering frantically in his ear. “No, Cas. Oh God, no.”

Castiel let his hands a temporary fit of grief as they scrabbled at Dean’s back to find purchase in the loose nightshirt he wore. The rough material bunched in his hands and seemed to squeeze out the scent of the woman – Lilith – so that it pervaded Castiel’s nostrils and he was forced to withdraw, breathing hurriedly through his mouth to dismiss the history of it.

“We have to get him out of the City.”

Dean, understanding the implications of the phrase and perhaps too the reason for Castiel’s withdrawal, was standing in an instant, hands wringing at his chest.

“How- how long do we have?”

Castiel paused a moment, eyes tracking the movement as Dean reached up and wiped at a spot on his neck, as though ridding himself of something.

“A day perhaps, but it could be less. His injuries were severe. It may take longer.”

“His Grace, it can’t… it can’t heal him?”

Castiel swallowed achingly and met Dean’s eyes with regret: “if it could have, he would never have passed.”

Dean’s chest heaved with a sudden rush of bile, but he swallowed it down hurriedly. “Tonight. We should take him tonight, then?”

“If we can.”

Dean nodded curtly and his hands recommenced wringing. “Shit, I… I have to get access to the body. The whole City’ll be awake now. We have to-“

“If you can distract the City, I can escort him.”

Dean shook his head rigidly and his eyes narrowed. “You can’t do it alone, Cas. If they see you, they’ll kill you.”

“Dean-“

“ _No_.”

There was more at stake than Castiel’s willingness to gamble his life to remove Balthazar from the City in Dean’s refusal, but the matter went unattended as Dean commenced pacing across the room.

“I can find out where the body will be left. I can dismiss the guards. Bobby can help. And Sam. We can trust him. If we go before dawn…”

Dean paused as the floor beneath him creaked and he stared down at it blankly.

“I can get us the time alone. We can cover the body. If we’re quick enough, no one will have a chance to think twice. There’s no reason to suspect…”

Dean trailed off as he brought his fingers to his lips and pressed them there, embroiled in thought momentarily. Castiel waited out the moment, and let Dean return to sit next to him on the bed. Dean failed to volunteer anything further of his plan, and instead raised his hand to the side of Castiel’s neck. Slowly, he traced down the protruding tendon there, along his collarbone and down into the dip of his shirt, until he located the thong of his amulet and pulled it out slowly. With a fragile trace of his thumb, he surveyed its outline, noting with a fixed gaze the marks of Castiel’s anxious touch upon it the days since they had parted.

“Will you… you’ll take him to the forest?”

“To the mountains, if I can travel fast enough. There will be food sources there to keep him away from the City and the Road.”

“And you-“

“We were never meant to see each other again.”

Dean’s body slumped and Castiel leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Dean froze against it and absorbed the implication, before parting Castiel’s mouth forcefully with his tongue and pouring out his regret at the sentiment. Castiel absorbed it with a frozen demeanor, and let Dean continue the expulsion until he was spent, and pulled backwards, tucking the amulet back into Castiel’s shirt.

“I-I have to go and see Lilith, to make sure she… she’s occupied. She’ll be wondering where I am, she-“

Castiel shook his head and relieved Dean of finishing the sentence.

“Go to her, Dean. I’ll wait for you here.”

Dean nodded curtly and stood at once, righting his body into a posture of officiousness and contorting his face into a smile.

“I’ll… I’ll be back before dawn. If you could… find something to… to wrap him in. While I’m gone?”

Castiel nodded and dropped his hand to Dean’s bed sheet. Dean’s eyes tracked the movement, before he nodded in approval and made a quick departure, staring straight ahead as he left the room and made for the streets.

Castiel didn’t hold back tears, when he was sure he was alone. There was so little time to effect their plan, and so much fortitude yet to be required in escorting his brother’s body away from the City. In the small opportunity he had, he forced from his person every suffering emotion that stirred at seeing Dean once more while the front of his shirt was stained with Barachiel’s blood.

He kept the noise to a minimum, although the City rang silent in the wake of Dean’s howls in the square earlier. The emptiness was enough for him to fill with a few hacked sobs and pleas with his Father for redemption. None came, and within the hour he was done, and performed Dean’s request with efficiency, ripping the sheets from his bed and bundling them into a small parcel.

While Dean was away, he sat in quiet meditation and let his wings stretch out on the bed behind him. In the space, he made his calculations – four days to get Barachiel to the mountains, perhaps only days more for himself. It was difficult to predict his own expiry when the ache in his chest was compounded with Dean’s simultaneous proximity and distance. Once his, now another’s. Lost forever – at least, not much longer for Castiel.

The trip would require speed in any event, but security too. If Barachiel reawoke before they reached the mountains, the injuries he might inflict on Castiel would certainly be enough to end it. Castiel could not risk that, in that he hoped at least, in his passing to oblivion, that his final act could be to render the forest some security, or at least not inflate the circumstance.

The only path available was to mutilate Barachiel’s body once they left the City. If he pulverized enough, the body might take longer to restore and they could reach the mountains safely. The memory of Gabriel – skewered in the clearing – arose, and Castiel briefly contemplated the efficacy of burning. It would have to be at least a day’s ride into the forest, to hide the scent of smoke beneath the tree cover. If his brothers and sisters smelt the feast of flesh awaiting them, he might be done for before he could escape. Blood was an issue too though – too fresh and it would leave a trail. Whereas he might have hoped that his scent was sufficiently unattractive once – when he had covered Dean in the cave – in light of the breach of his cottage that moment had long since passed. He was as likely to be a victim as any man on the road now, and in being so, liable to create many more.

He would have to drain him then. Slit his throat and hang him upside down, to let the most of the juices stay in one place. A drier corpse would be easier to dismember and transport. It might be enough, if he could stomach it. In any event, he would not have long to live with the disgust. Although, tragically, eh wondered idly if he might retain enough sentience post-transformation to be tormented by it.

For that was the predicament of his brothers and sisters – first and foremost. Torment and unforgiveness in the face of their Father’s slight. Whatever he had hoped to abstain from in love for humanity, he would surely turn the same as the rest of them, on whatever foul part of himself he kept hidden. Anna had turned, so had Gabriel – honest and true, the both of them. There was no hope that he might be offered a different fate. That was the cruelty of it. And there, that, that sense of cruelty – that would turn him animal, if nothing else. The injustice of it, that it was impossible to earn his way from his circumstance. His Father would always forsake him in any event.

When Dean returned, he was somber and pale, and he beckoned Castiel with a wave of his hand that made clear he should hurry, and that the arrangements to enable their passage would not last long.

At the doorway, Dean pulled Castiel close to him, and kissed him farewell – dry from tears, and even passion. But tender, comforting and full of care.

“When…. When it happens…. Just remember that… I love you, Cas. Always. Whatever you become, I’m always yours.”

Castiel nodded and kissed Dean again – careful, cautious, as though it were their first, and smiled against Dean’s lips as he dwelled on the magnificence of it, that he had at least been afforded that. Dean groaned, and burrowed his face into Castiel’s shoulder momentarily, before righting himself and pressing their foreheads close.

“One day, I’ll come to the mountains. I’ll find you, Cas. No matter what you are. I promise.”

Castiel shook his head against Dean’s and Dean snorted with frustration and mimicked the expression, in disdain for Castiel’s implied statement. “I will. Always. I’ll never forget you.”

There were more kisses, and the trace of a thumb against Castiel’s collarbone, before Dean abruptly pulled away and took Castiel by the hand as he lead him through the threshold.

The air was far colder in premonition of dawn when they made their way to the streets, a few hours later. Dean kept his hand tightly wrapped around Castiel’s, despite his insistence that they move quickly and quietly.

“Is Sam-“

“I couldn’t find him. He and Ruby, they’re not in the rooms. We’re in this alone.”

The walk to the City was a decent one, and it took around twenty minutes for them to make sufficient way to the Palace, and to enter the Great Hall. As per Dean’s obvious request, the area had been left open for him and there were guards stationed at the main door. As they arrived, they bowed before Dean before their eyes looked to Castiel in question.

“This man is a mortician from the City. He will embalm the body.”

Dean looked to Castiel expectantly, who nodded slowly and met the guards’ eyes confidently.

The men nodded silently, and stepped to the side to allow them entrance, with courteously hung heads and heavy gaits. Dean proceeded first, and Castiel followed, pulling his fur anxiously around his wings as he passed the guards, who scarcely looked at him, but to step forward and close the door.

The doors were bolted behind them, and the sound of heavy clunks echoed through the Hall. In a fit, Dean pulled Castiel close and left one small kiss on his lips, murmuring: “I promise”, before pulling away quickly and starting down the Hall.

He had only taken two steps when he froze, and Castiel halted only just in time to avoid colliding with him. It was only a microsecond before his eyes took in the sight that Dean’s had, and his mouth fell open in horror and anticipation of catastrophe.

At the centre of the Hall, beside a mounted concrete plaque, a small-framed woman tugged at Barachiel’s body, dragging it by its wrist from the table and letting it fall to the stone floor. She sobbed as the head of the body hit the floor, and the crack of damage to the skull reverberated around the Hall. Despite its sickness, she was unperturbed, and immediately recommenced tugging, pulling the stiff body across the floor in aborted tugs and gasping with the effort. The sound of the doors opening and closing barely seemed to perturb her efforts, though Dean’s cry of “what?” was enough to have her raise her eyes.

“For God’s sake, Dean, help me! He has to leave the City!”

…

** 2013 **

Greg returned with the others to the tomb following his dream, and scarcely spoke to Castiel when he returned in the evenings. By some unspoken agreement, however, Sam’s room had become Greg’s, when Sam moved to sleep in Jessica’s lodgings full time. Greg never suggested that Castiel ought to leave the area, though he was content to ignore him in the time he did inhabit the space, and Castiel endured the days in silence, except when Greg woke gasping in the next room.

Every time, Castiel hovered nervously on the other side of the door. Greg had taken to closing it when he slept and Castiel was loath to invade his privacy. Still, hearing his distress, in Dean’s voice, was enough to have him anxiously awaiting the recurrence of another nightmare every night. He knew Greg knew he was there, for on one occasion he murmured through the door, requesting that Castiel “please leave him alone”. Castiel knew better than to relent, for the times that he did depart from his watchful post, he heard the anxious thud of Greg’s heart beyond the wall that made clear he could not return to sleep. At least, when he waited, Greg managed to grab a few hours on any given night, even if he always awoke in distress.

Jessica and Sam had no explanation for Greg’s behavior and were unaware of his nightmares, and Bobby studiously avoided the subject. However, as Greg became more active in the excavation of the tomb, Jessica took to staying in the motel, at least in the morning, to keep Castiel company and to (subtly) prod for an explanation as to his failure to continue with his storytelling, or his intended plans regarding his staying with them should he choose not to finish it.

Castiel was never able to answer those questions, to himself or to her, but she was gracious enough not to push the subject, and allowed Castiel the small indulgence of discussing her blossoming relationship with Sam, even if the caution in her eyes negated the sweet blush of her cheeks.

“He’s… he’s the kindest man I’ve ever met, Cas. And he has this genuine… enthusiasm for the world.”

Castiel smiled kindly as Jessica looked embarrassedly down at her knees and twisted a piece of jewellery between her fingers.

“I mean, how did I ever… I’m so lucky. I’m just so so lucky.”

Castiel chuckled kindly and assured her, in no uncertain terms, that luck had played no part in her happiness. “He is a reflection of the fact that you are wondrous, Jessica. He is the only man who could possibly deserve you.”

Jessica’s blush deepened so significantly that in any other circumstance, she might appear as though crucially deprived of oxygen. Her embarrassment, however, did not prevent her from reaching out to Castiel and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pressing their cheeks together.

“I love you, Cas. I really do. I’m so sorry about… I’m so sorry.”

Jessica, remarkable as she was, had tears suspended atop the waterline of her eyes as she withdrew to look at Castiel, and stroked a thumb across his cheek. “I wish… I just wish so badly that… Cas I just want you to be happy.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched, but he did not reply, and Jessica’s smile drooped sadly as she dropped her hand to his and squeezed it.

“I.. I know that you loved him, Cas. More than anything. And he loved you too. What you had, it was… it was the stuff they write books about.”

There was no sense in denying it, and Castiel merely stroked a thumb atop the skin on the back of Jessica’s hand in response, nodding with his entire body in slow rocks back and forth.

“Dean was.... he was the most exquisite creature I ever beheld. I gave my soul to him.”

Jessica grimaced and returned the reassuring touch on Castiel’s hand, playing with their fingers idly with a lack of care that might once have suited Anna’s touch.

“I know. I know you did, Cas.”

She squeezed their hands tight together, and leaned towards Castiel so that their shoulders were pressed together.

“But… it wouldn’t… ruin that, for you to find… for you to look for… something else.”

Castiel’s stroke to the back of Jessica’s hand faltered, but he ignored the sudden stab of panic at his gut. In response to his failure to instruct her to cease, Jessica continued shakily.

“I mean… if… if you couldn’t go back to Heaven. If God has still… if the Gates are still locked, and you can’t get to Dean… he would understand, Cas, if you found someone here….”

The twitch at Castiel’s thumb was enough to alert Jessica to his sudden rising discomfort and she recoiled quickly.

“I know…. I know it seems like…. I don’t mean to disrespect him or you, but Greg-“

Castiel dropped his gaze quickly and shifted away from Jessica slightly, pursing his lips and stiffening.

“Jessica, I-“

“No, Cas, please hear me out. I promise I….I just have to say this, and then we can pretend I never did. Someone… someone has to say something, I-“

Castiel made to stand but she reached out and let a light touch on his arm. He was ready to move away, but as he turned to instruct her to commence the pretense immediately, he was caught by the earnest desperation in her expression. “Cas, please, I-“

Castiel lowered himself slowly, back onto the couch and stared at her blankly. She bit her lip momentarily, and another flush rose below the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks, before she slid back close to Castiel and continued hurriedly.

“Greg… before we met you Cas. He was such a mess. I’ve never met anyone who was so… so dejected and so ruined. He was totally hollow.”

She swallowed quickly and seemed to momentarily hate herself for pronouncing so cruelly upon his character, before forgiving it and continuing.

“When he met you, everything changed and… I know it doesn’t seem right, what with your telling us the story about Dean and how you loved him, but… the way Greg looks at you – even when he’s angry or weird – it’s… it’s different. It’s like all that space got filled all of a sudden.”

Castiel looked away as Jessica’s eyes searched his frantically for a betrayal of his response.

“I wouldn’t have said anything. I mean, we’re all in awe of you. You’re an _angel_ , for goodness’ sake. But… Cas, the way he looks at you – it’s the way you look at him. I know he’s not Dean, but-“

Castiel raised a hand to his mouth and brushed across it in a fitful kind of aggravation that seemed to come from nowhere. Jessica’s voice rose as she hurried further through her explanation, as though he might recoil from her at any moment.

“Cas, I think that you and he… I think you could… there’s something. Something that none of us can put a finger on, or explain. And it shouldn’t be right. But it isn’t. We all-“

The endorsement set free a dam of withheld denials in Castiel that had him speaking outside of his volition.

“Jessica, he will no longer speak with me.”

In place of her hurried speech was a gasp and a surprised pause, and then Jessica leaned close and grabbed Castiel’s cheeks between hers.

“Oh, he will, I promise, he’s just confused and he doesn’t think that you would ever want him – as a friend or otherwise. And he thinks he’s done something to hurt you, and that’s why you’re not talking, he-“

“I’m not talking _for him_.”

“What?”

Castiel dropped his gaze and held his hands nervously at his chest, and Jessica withdrew her hands hurriedly in response.

“I cannot explain, but… it is for the best.”

Jessica paused for a moment and whet her lips with her tongue, before pressing forward cautiously.

“Does that mean you-“

“What if the Gates to Heaven are open, Jessica? Or what if they do?”

Jessica pursed her lips and leaned closer.

“Would Dean really mind Cas?”

Castiel froze against Jessica, and she reached forward to rub his back quickly. “I don’t mean that you need to… but, if you had a companion, Greg would be that too. I know he would. He’d be more too, but, if what you wanted was-“

Jessica didn’t know what Castiel suspected – she would never know that his fascination with Greg was not entirely off its own bat. And yet, even then, she saw for Greg and Castiel a future that could placate his past with Dean and that could offer him comfort after so long alone. Even after days of increasingly hoarse storytelling – of their tears at their parting, of Bobby’s disgust at their coupling, and the sentimental smiles of their falling in love – still, there was enough between Greg and he that she would ignore that, even believing Dean was still separate.

It was a truth Castiel had been unprepared to acknowledge – that Greg was important, and his fascination with him for the purposes of Dean’s retrieval had grown, to the point where he was prepared to sacrifice Dean’s return – maybe now or maybe forever – for the sake of doing right by Dean. But more and more, perhaps, for doing right by himself.

“Jessica, I-“

“Just think about it. Just explain to him why you won’t finish the story. He’ll understand, he will. He just wants to know that you’re not angry with him.”

Castiel nodded mutely as her gaze flicked up to the window, and the sound of Greg’s car re-arriving in the square, followed by the wail of Bobby’s truck infiltrated the room. She looked back to Castiel with a small smile and tucked a stand of hair behind her ear. “Guess they’re back early.” She stood and crossed the room, opening the door and waving out of it as the group slammed their doors and made their way wearily up the stairs to the room of the motel. Sam pecked Jessica’s lips as he passed, but excused himself for a shower, and Bobby bothered with nothing more than a gruff “evenin’” before doing the same and making for his own room. Greg appeared in the doorway, but crossed the room determinedly without looking at Castiel and started the shower in the washroom. Jessica raised her eyebrows, but gave Castiel an assuring nod of her head. “I promise, Cas. It’ll all work out.”

Castiel wasn’t so sure, but he waited, calming himself for the entirety of the afternoon while Greg made to ignore him at every possible opportunity, until darkness fell and he conceded only a grudging “night”, before retiring to his bedroom.

…

Greg woke that night as he had the nights previously, gasping and clutching at his sheets. Only this time, despite his closed door, Castiel was quick to respond, opening the door without ceremony and crossing the room to where Greg hung on the side of his bed, hands curled into shaking fists and the arch of his back heaving as he recovered his breath.

He flinched slightly when Castiel sat down next to him, but seemed too caught up in his recovery to say anything more, and even conceded Castiel’s touch when he raised a hand to his back and commenced rubbing sympathetic circles there.

Greg was crying a little too, and he didn’t bother to hide that from Castiel, sniffing loudly and unpleasantly as he attempted to force the cessation of the activity, When Castiel’s hands moved wider, across the material at his back to the bare skin of his neck, he shivered and recoiled, but nonetheless made no move to ask Castiel to leave.

“Greg, I know you do not wish to tell me what you are dreaming, but-“

“No.”

“I know. But, if there is any other way that I can assist-“

“No.”

Castiel removed his hand from Greg’s back and placed it lightly in his own lap, twining his fingers together and sighing.

“I know that you are angry with me, and I am sorry. If you could tell me why, I-“

“No.”

Castiel nodded carefully and fiddled with the cuticles on his thumbs.

“I understand. I do. I only…. I miss your company, Greg. I miss it a great deal, and I wish you would talk to me.”

Greg stiffened beside Castiel and coughed, which turned into a hacking, aching expulsion of stale air in his lungs, and he leaned forward, forcing it out, while Castiel’s hand returned to his back and recommenced the circles. Greg stayed forward long after the coughing had ceased and allowed Castiel to continue his exploration of his back, drawing smaller and larger circles and infusing comfort and care in every touch.

Eventually, he turned his head left to look at Castiel, and Castiel pulled away his hand quickly, readjusting his position on the bed and nestling his hands together once more. He pursed his lips and looked to his lap, and caught the sound of a soft “oh” from Greg next to him, as he straightened up and examined Castiel properly.

Castiel met his eyes cautiously, and with arduous care so that he did not look upon Greg to quickly, and break the spell of the suspension of his gaze. When he did meet Greg’s, his pupils blew, and his mouth fell open in an expression of vacant looking shock and disbelief.

“Greg, if… I believe that the Gates of Heaven are still closed to me, even if my Grace is returning.”

Greg swallowed and his throat smacked as its dry interior was temporarily lubricated and then forced apart from its constriction. His eyes stayed fixed on Castiel’s.

“I would… if you would have me, I wish to stay with you, even when you are done with the tomb.”

Greg gasped and shuddered against Castiel and then fell backwards and was forced to catch himself with his hands. Castiel turned quickly, but Greg righted himself well enough, still staring incredulously at Castiel, and he stuttered: “L-live with us?”

“Live with you, if you would let me.”

Greg gaped at him silently and seemed frozen in time for at least a minute, and Castiel eventually stirred beside him, standing quickly. “I… I will give you some time to think regarding this, and… the opportunity to deny me, if you wish. You have no obligation, Greg. And I do not wish to intrude. I-“

He turned to leave as he spoke fumbling with the door handle as his heart pounded in his chest. Jessica was wrong. He’d been a fool and Greg would not be near him. All these presumptions, rested on the hope that Dean within Greg would persuade him to his release. But yet Greg was angry, and he wished Castiel to leave, for whatever trauma he had caused him in his dreams, and that part of him was too strong and held Dean back.

“Cas!”

Greg’s touch to his arm was unexpectedly tight and sharp, and sent a jolt of adrenaline up the flesh.

Castiel, in turning to meet him, was thrown off balance, and fell back unexpectedly into the wall. Greg advanced quickly, reaching out as though he might examine for injury, but failing to make the last step – setting for examining Castiel quickly with his eyes.

“Sorry. Sorry, I-“

Castiel shook his head quickly: “Only… it was unexpected.”

Greg stared at him for a bated moment, before giving an uncertain but overly-energized laugh. In the space following that, and silence fell, during which time the floor began to tremble between them as Greg’s entire body seemed to commence vibrating at once.

“I-… Are you sure? That you would want to-“

“Yes.”

Castiel cut across Greg without awaiting the end of his sentence, overly-anxious to avoid any nervous waiting at Greg’s expense. Greg stiffened at first in response, but then he smiled, and happiness seemed to flow from it and spiral down the limbs of his body, until his tremble in the floor hummed with elation.

“I would… I would love that, Cas… if you mean it.”

“I do.”

Greg let out a startled breath, almost with the force of nausea, and seemed caught by the reaction himself. Quickly, he looked down and wrung his hands, before looking coyly up at Castiel – so much like Dean that for a moment Castiel was on the verge of reaching for him and kissing him, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

Or maybe it wasn’t that he was like Dean. Maybe that was the excuse.

Greg seemed to sense the change in the air, and he looked away quickly, raising his hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“I’m so sorry that I’ve been so… distant. And like I’ve been angry. I was, but… I just thought that maybe you…”

He trailed off, obviously unable to perfectly phrase his answer in the way he intended.

Greg smiled briefly and shrugged a shoulder. “I- Look, I’m sorry. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“I bear no ill feeling towards you, Greg. I was merely worried.”

“I know.” Greg met Castiel’s eyes, but quickly looked away again. His heartbeat increased rapidly, and before he spoke, he swallowed stickily. “It’s just… I thought you were going to leave and I… I freaked out.”

Castiel paused for a moment as Greg appraised him, and Greg shuffled on his feet nervously across from him.

“I… I just care about you too. You’re… you’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had, and I don’t... I guess I don’t know how to show it well, but-“

Greg’s breath left him in a rush, and he stared at Castiel, seemingly gobsmacked. “ _Cas_.”

Castiel heard the longing in the words, but he chose to ignore it. Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, he stepped forward towards Greg, eyes fixed on his and staring.

“Greg, you need not be awed by my friendship. You have done a great deal for me. I am indebted to you.”

“Mmm.”

Greg breathed cautiously, seemingly terrified to act too quickly and dismiss Castiel. In his chest, his heart thundered harder, so that Castiel felt it echo in his blood.

When Greg met his eyes, it seemed like a universe exploded behind them. At once, Castiel felt the descent of a gracious comfort, like the caress of his Father’s hand itself fall upon his being. His body, his mind, his soul. That was replicated by Greg’s arms as they wound around him carefully – delicately placed around his shoulders and waist – Greg’s chin hovering just above the knob of his shoulder.

“Friends?” Greg breathed, cautious and uncertain.

“Friends,” Castiel responded, equally careful, as he held Greg like porcelain, and felt the tremble of Greg’s muscles scatter across his skin, and send his own body careering into a giddy confusion.

“Just like in the story,” Greg mumbled fondly, as he let his chin drop to Castiel’s shoulder, pulling him a little closer and holding tighter. He exhaled a sigh of relief, as though the moment were less than it was, but with it, his entire body seemed to rumble with anticipation.

Greg’s body and his scent were different than Dean’s. Cleaner, finer and more delicate. There was a weariness to him that Dean had never been possessed of – an oldness and an exhaustion. But one that reassured, rather than aggravated – he was one that had endured and triumphed, and wore the scars of experience with stoicism.

Where the foreignness should have repelled him, Castiel felt himself fold into it with ease. At his chest, his heart thrummed with the pure humanity of the moment, and his muscles twisted of their own accord to hold Greg tighter, and to tentatively trace the minutiae of the places his he inhabited. Beneath his index finger – where it hovered at the side of Greg’s neck, he felt a goosepimple rise to meet him.

And beneath that, with none of the ceremony he would have expected, he tasted Dean’s soul.

Despite the weeks of cautiousness and planning, it happened as though they might have never parted. Castiel’s nose traced the line of Greg’s cheek first, and Greg’s face turned into his, so that the corner of his mouth met Castiel’s skin. Slowly, arduously, they traced backward to each other blindly – even though their hands stayed frozen in place with the anticipation – across every fleck of stubble or skin blemish, until with one quick puff, they were face to face and their breaths mingled in the miniscule space between them.

Greg’s cry was small, almost imperceptible, but enough to be felt against Castiel’s lips as they drew together – so that it preceded the first contact only by a millisecond, but made that moment and explosion of sensation, that somehow still expounded itself ten million fold when their lips touched.

It was only preliminary – the barest graze of skin. Imbued with little other than uncertainty and nervousness, but with the promise that it would be awash with emotion and ecstasy in a mere moment. The perfect suspension of time, before the storm.

One moment, after weeks, was all it took.

 The shock of it spread to Castiel’s core with a sharp tingle, and in a moment, it spurred the rest of him to action. At his centre, his Grace blossomed with overwhelming, explosive force, washing him with a veil of ice and forcing his muscles to constrict around it.

“Ah!”

He crumpled before Greg could properly get to him and slid down the wall as his hands spasmed before him and power shot from their fingertips. When Greg tried to reach him, he was shocked with the force of it and sent careering into the base of his bed, falling backwards and rushing back in horror as Castiel congealed before him.

“Fuck, Cas!”

“It’s – _ah_ – I’m alright. Stay back!”

The Grace hurled his body backwards and split his spine momentarily, fusing it back together in the next breath and forcing his mouth and eyes open, so that they could glow, ravenous to take in the world beyond the cage of his body.

“Cover your eyes!” he choked around the explosion of light, and Greg buried himself beneath a blanket hurriedly, reaching hastily for a pillow and pressing it into his ear as Castiel’s true voice forced itself from his throat and expelled through the dingy room, shattering the windows and throwing the blankets back into Greg’s face and momentarily smothering him before, all at once, the room fell silent, and Castiel collapsed, panting against the busted doorframe – the door of which lay in the hallway beyond, splintered at its centre.

Greg, to his credit, only delayed a moment before throwing the blankets from himself and stumbling forward blindly to Cas, eyes still covered.

“Cas, can I look? Can I-”

Castiel growled out a “yes” in response, and stood hurriedly, rushing towards Greg to wrench his hand from his face and check for damage to his eyes. Greg dropped his hand first though, and left it uncovered, and Castiel’s Grace recoiled so strongly that he was thrown backwards again and forced to look away.

Greg’s face – the sharp planes of cheekbone, the shiny flesh speckled with freckles – was eclipsed by his true form beneath it. In Grace infused eyeballs, suddenly, Castiel saw each and every mark laid upon the soul he had expected to be Dean’s. Perhaps it was. Or had been.

Bulbous. Mutated. Deformed. The substance was swollen so thick around the eyeballs that it was blind, and angry red, infected marks raged on its surface – throbbing with the effort of enduring and secreting. His teeth were charred black, and disintegrating. The lips had faded from around the mouth, and it was nothing but a moving black hole that seemed to swallow the life force of the air around it.

 He had never seen a soul with such a face before, instead of a clear, pristine surface. The animation was startling, and terrifying.

Mucus slid from its jaws as it called out to him. “Cas. Cas! What? What happened?” Its hands were gnarled claws when they reached for him, swollen to the point of stiffness, but dry and flaky to the touch as they slid anxiously across his face – his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw.

The scent too was putrid. Sharp and salty – ragged with effort. Death. It smelled like death. Acid and tar and resentment, mixed into a grueling cocktail that made him gag as the breath ghosted across his face.

“Cas, it’s me, I’m here. I’ve come-“

“Stop! Please, don’t! Don’t!”

Castiel hurriedly looked away and stumbled back down the hallway, reaching for the walls to hold him upright as he fumbled aimlessly in the task of removing himself from the horrific sight that was Greg’s true face. That pursuit was made all the more difficult, when the door to the motel room flew open, and Sam hurried in, eyes wide and searching.

“Cas? What the hell just happened?”

Castiel couldn’t stifle the cry that erupted when he saw the way Sam’s skin now hung across his bones. Sallow and aching in its true form – yellowed, wilting and translucent. It was ragged at the edges, which trailed aimlessly behind him in a non-existent wind. Disintegrating before his very eyes.

Castiel cowered in the corner as Greg appeared behind him and Sam rushed forwards – bones outstretched to grab at him.

“What? No!”

Bobby, when he appeared, was the same as Sam. Yawning, gaping and aching, it seemed a wonder his form could hold itself upright as he breached the threshold of the room and took him Castiel’s trembling visage. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut as he heard them bark around him – horror and anger on Greg’s part, and hurried confusion from the others. It was all in his self control not to strike out at them on the spot and make his hasty escape, and instead curl around the knowledge that he knew their forms were not the truth. Something was _wrong_.

Light blared behind his eyelids when Jessica entered the room, and she immediately and intimately understood his sigh of relief as she rushed for him, placing soothing hands on his cheeks and leaning close, whispering: “Cas. Cas. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“My Grace…. It- it has returned.”

Her grip tightened as Greg dropped to his knees before Castiel and reached for him too. “Cas. Please. Let me-“

His shudder was enough for Jessica to understand and she hurriedly pushed Greg away.

“Greg. Get out. You have to get out now.”

“Cas. No, please. Can’t you see? I’m-“

“We can answer that later. You need to leave, he’s-“

Greg stumbled backwards in time for Sam to rush forward and take his place, and when Castiel stiffened he received the same treatment. To his left, Greg sobbed lightly as he reached again for Castiel and Castiel wrenched himself from his grasp, curling in further to the corner.

“No! Greg! Get out. All of you. Sam, take them to our room. Please! Now!”

Greg struggled to get to Castiel, and when Castiel had the nerve to open his eyes, he saw the intense focus that bled from the black hollows and the curl of the haunting whole in the centre of the soul’s face around his name. “Cas! Cas!”

Bobby and Sam manhandled Greg from the room and slammed the door behind him, though Greg continued to call for Castiel from beyond the wall – his voice cracking and raising until it sounded that of a madman, while his fists pounded against the wall.

“Cas. Cas!”

Jessica stroked his cheeks and slapped some life into them as her face hovered concernedly before his eyes. Slowly, and with utter force of will, he let the visage of her soul slide to reveal the tanned, moled skin beneath and her concerned expression.

“Cas. What on earth? Are you hurt?”

He swallowed and slid forward, placing his head between his legs and breathing heavily. She moved quickly to commence rubbing circles into his back, as he had done for Greg so recently, and murmured softly.

“Cas, please.”

Castiel took a stammering breath and drew his chin up so that his eyes were level with Jessica’s.

“I saw their true faces.”

There was a small pause, and for a moment Greg’s hammering against the plaster stopped. It was only a brief second, for the next Greg screamed on the other side of the wall, which cut off abruptly with a thud and the tinkering of something delicate being taken with him as he fell. When Sam cried out,, his voice was hoarse and wrecked, and utterly ridden with panic. “Jesus Christ, call 911! Now! Greg! Greg! Wake up!”

 

 


	31. As You Remain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. What happens this chapter – it will come as a shock and it will happen fast. Heed the tags.
> 
> I really am very sorry. You are all going to hate me.

** 1425 **

“Lydia!”

The exclamation, and the sudden clarity it brought was not lost in the haste to hurry forward and address a lady of the Court bodily hoisting a corpse across her body and dragging it to a small exit at the back of the hall. But as Dean ran towards her, Castiel close behind, the more immediate circumstance was predominant, and Castiel’s heart thudded with his horror at it.

“Dean, we don’t have time. Please, trust me!”

Despite her plea, she seemed utterly astounded when Dean moved beside her and shouldered the body himself, hurrying across the hall as best he could under the bulk of the corpse, and gesturing to Castiel that he bring the sheet.

“Come on, Cas. Hurry.”

As the body fell from her grip, she stared dumbly at Castiel, watching his path after Dean crossed the hall. When he turned to follow, his silhouette beneath the fur was exposed – poorly covered in the shock of being found in the room – and her eyes widened.

“Oh my God!”

She started forward to Castiel, but he dodged her and followed Dean across the floor, dropping and spreading the sheet when Dean made to pause and replace Barachiel’s body on the floor.

Lydia, garbed in the skirts of a lady of the palace, took a few moments longer to meet them, and cradled Barachiel’s head as he was lowered unceremoniously to the ground, and Dean fished a roll of twine from his pocket to secure the sheet around the body.

She and Dean’s eyes met over the head of the body, a moment passed in which their mutual appreciation of the circumstance and the reason for their presence passed between them.

“You know?”

“I’ve always known,” she admonished with aggravation, “how do you think he got in and out of the City. Someone had to-“

“I never saw you at the Gates.”

In the jostling, Barachiel’s eyelids had crept open slightly, forced back into blind unseeing by the accumulation of gases slowly building up in his bloating body. Lydia winced and passed her hand over the eyelids to force them back down, and held her trembling hand there while she looked back up at Dean.

“I paid off some of the children on the wall, once or twice. They were too poor or too dumb to question it.”

She dropped her other hand to quickly smooth Barachiel’s hair away from his face, moving a few loose strands to the side and smoothing over his forehead.

“But how did you... how did you know?”

Lydia paused for a moment and her hand traced over Barachiel’s forehead before she straightened and meeting Dean in the eyes.

“He rescued me when I was a girl. I was travelling with my family in the forest. It was an ambush. Just like yours, really. This bastard came from the forest and tore me away.”

“Lydia!”

Lydia raised her hands from Barachiel’s face and brushed at her skirts before hastily pulling the sheet around the body.

“Say what you like, I don’t care. He owes me my anger. I’ve known him far better than you, and I’ll speak of him how I will. Even if he is dead.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Castiel placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and pulled him away, as Lydia neatly folded the sheet around the body and reached for the twine held in Dean’s loose grip. He allowed her to take it without ceremony and she commenced lacing it around the bulk of the corpse, looking meaningfully at Castiel whenever she required its weight to be lifted, in order for the twine to pass beneath it.

She started crying as she did it – slow tears that ran down her cheeks at first, but then fatter tears that fell onto the body below her and caused her hands to shake around the twine, and eventually concede the task. Castiel took it from her without a word, and she sobbed harder as he finished the job. It was as if grief washed away the veneer, for beneath the tears was the bitterness of her previous words made plain.

“So you found your own, did you Dean? Tell me, did this one forgive you for your humanity?”

Castiel cut through the residual twine with a knife, before commencing a second loop around the body’s waist, snaking his hand underneath the stiff corpse to secure it around the entirety of the sheet.

“What?” Beside him, Dean paused momentarily in moving his hands around Barachiel’s body to where Castiel needed him to life.

“The Fall. We were so unlovable that the Angels couldn’t stand to carry out God’s will. So they fell for it, and they’ve resented us ever since.”

Dean gaped for a moment and even Castiel ceased in his tying of a tight knot around Barachiel’s chest to look up at Lydia. She met his eyes evenly, and with a petrified kind of anger.

“What do you mean?” Dean’s voice was something of a growl, even if he kept it to a whisper to prevent reverberation throughout the great hall.

“You know what I mean. Tell me, Angel, do you resent him for it?”

“You don’t have to answer that, Cas.”

Castiel shook his head and commenced re-knotting, ignoring the huff of Lydia’s breath as she fell forwards and clenched her hands into fists in the sheet that covered Barachiel’s body.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just...”

Her shoulders juddered as she howled into the material and plead with the immobile form beneath her. “Balthazar, forgive me.”

Castiel paused as he prepared to make his next loop, unable to move if Lydia were to remain in her position. Dean seemed lost, staring down at her with a renewed kind of terror, and failed to understand Castiel’s meaning when he gestured towards her softly. When Dean failed to respond, Castiel reached forward himself and touched Lydia’s shoulder lightly and sympathetically, murmuring: “I am sure he cared for you a great deal. Truly, he loved humanity.”

“Not enough,” she whimpered, curling her fingernails into the material and squeezing. “I would have given up everything for him, and he wouldn’t have me. He-“

She let Castiel place his hand more firmly on her shoulder, but seemed ignorant to the touch as she continued.

“He let me marry that... buffoon, when he knew... he _knew_ I was his. He’d never touch me.”

“Lydia?”

Dean was jolted from his stupefication, and shuffled around the body to bring his arm around Lydia’s shoulder and pull her into his chest. She seemed to resist at first, but Dean was strong, and there was comfort in the intimacy given the previous nature of their relationship. She let him fold her into his chest and held her tightly.

Castiel sat back, a little dulled, and watched the unmoving stiff body beneath him, so unresponsive in the face of Lydia’s despair. It seemed, by her anger, perhaps it was that way in life too.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured slowly, looking at the blank sheet as though he could see through to his brother’s face beneath it and request explanation for Lydia’s disdain.

“Don’t you?” she murmured, pulling her face out from Dean’s chest, face swelling with puffing cheeks beneath the force of her tears.

Castiel shook his head slowly under her accusatory glance. “No, I don’t.”

She laughed fitfully and swallowed a sob, before wiping at her face with irritation. “It was always God first. Always. Everything he did, it was always for him.”

She gritted her teeth as another sob wracked her body, and Dean ran a soothing hand down her back.

“I was just a girl when he rescued me. Seven years old. The Angelus ate my mother in front of me. I hid under my Father’s body.”

Dean’s chest twitched with the shock of the statement, seemingly pulsing from his stomach, and he dropped his forehead to the crown of Lydia’s head, breathing in carefully.

“He came out of the forest and took me – he killed two of them to get to me, and he hurt himself getting out. He almost died.”

Her lips curled around the memory, obviously tarnished in the face of a closer past.

“He brought me here and left me as his ward with a lady of the Castle. And he came back every year. He brought me money and presents. He kept me safe. And I... I fell in love with him.”

She bit her lip and flushed.

“I persuaded him to come and live in the City. I held him down and sawed off his wings myself so that he could, and we brought them back and told the City he was a Slayer. Eve, she wore them for years.”

She grimaced and hiccupped as a stray tear roamed down her cheek.

“He never thought of me as... he was a good man. When he realised, when I was eighteen, he... he stayed away on the Road for years on end. He wouldn’t even see me.”

She ran the back of her hand across her eyes, and sniffed.

“I gave up on him, and when Azazel promised me the Court, I took him up on it. It didn’t matter who I married – I knew I’d hate them.”

Dean turned his head so that his cheek was pressed to the crown of Lydia’s head and he stared at Castiel blankly.

“Balthazar came back and... he got drunk the night before the wedding. He told me that he loved me, and I thought for a moment that we could leave and be done with the City. But...”

She laughed lightly.

“He left me the next morning to my husband, and when he came back, he was as you see him now. Because even if he loved me, it was never enough. It was always his Father first. He went back to the road to save people, not because he loved them, but because he hoped his Father would hear and let him in. Even if he cared for them, it was always his Father first.”

She pursed her lips together around a fresh sob. “He told me that, if his Father ever called him back to Heaven, he would go to him. That he could never love me enough as he ought to, and that was why he could not stay with me. He was such a fool.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she stared at Castiel accusingly: “that’s what it came down to. No matter how hard he tried, he never did manage to love humanity. Not properly, or enough.”

Castiel dropped his gaze to Barachiel’s body. “My Father... he can be cruel.”

“He is. That’s the end of it. He betrayed me and he betrayed Balthazar. And now he betrays both of you two.”

Dean looked to Castiel and their eyes locked on one another’s. When Lydia caught the gaze, she looked between them. “You both-“

Castiel looked away quickly and down to the body, quickly recommencing wrapping the twine around his ankles. “We need to get the body out now. Dawn is coming.”

Dean kissed Lydia’s temple before dropping to his knees to assist Castiel, lifting Barachiel’s legs and allowing Castiel to knot the twine around their base. “Cas-“

“Please, Dean, we have to hurry.”

Dean’s eyes locked on his for a moment, and in the passing second Castiel felt an “I love you” twist around his tongue. Dean nodded minutely to convey his understanding, and looked away, before moving to Barachiel’s shoulders and wedging his fists beneath him. Castiel took the feet and they stood simultaneously, stumbling slightly as they hurried across the hall. Lydia followed and then strode out in front of them, opening a small door to the side of the hall and poking her head around.

“Quickly!” she motioned with her hand for them to hurry through, but they paused momentarily as Castiel assisted Dean in swinging the body over his shoulder to carry it singularly. Castiel adjusted it against his body until Dean was secure, and then he proceeded through the doorway with quick light steps.

As he passed, Lydia hissed in a quick whisper: “how are we getting him out?”

“We’re getting him to the stable. As fast as possible. Then we get him out.”

She nodded quickly and closed the door behind Castiel as he exited and then sidling up in front of the group to clear their way down the next hallway. “It’s empty. Come on.”

The trip to the stable was slow going, with Lydia and Castiel painstakingly checking before and after every route to ensure they were neither being anticipated or followed. Dean grunted under the weight of carrying the body, but made no move to pass it onto Castiel, who adjusted it as many times as he could and followed closely to monitor the effort.

Once in the stable, however, he did require Castiel’s help lowering it, and their eyes met over the top of the sheet before Dean busied himself readying a horse. He saddled it roughly, and when he was done, he heaved the body up and over the front of it without ceremony, which caused Lydia to cover her hand with her mouth and turn away. Dean turned and met Castiel’s eyes, hands hanging awkwardly at his waist. “We can ride down to the gates, if we’re quick, the Gates’ll be open before anyone’s awake. I can ask the guardsmen on the ramparts to leave.”

Castiel nodded quickly and adjusted his knives at his waist. “If we’re stopped?”

Dean pursed his lips and his eyes surveyed Castiel’s face quickly. “Talk your way out. And if you can’t, fight. It’ll be worth it, in the end, for what could happen.”

Castiel nodded again and strode towards the horse. Dean caught him at its flank, and pulled him close into a tight hug. “I love you, Cas.”

Castiel pressed their temples together tightly, and turned his head to press a soft kiss against Dean’s cheek.

“I love you too, Dean. Seeing you again, it was the greatest gift I could have been awarded.”

Dean smiled against his cheek and twisted Castiel’s face with his hand to press one last, lingering kiss on his lips. “Keep fighting, no matter what happens.”

Castiel didn’t answer, except to return the kiss with a tender fondness and a sweet farewell. Dean appeared to understand, for he stepped away quickly, and allowed Castiel to mount his mare in silence. As he sat atop her, Dean let his hand run down Castiel leg, before he moved it to his waist and felt for his sword there.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

Dean moved to the side of the stable, and pulled out a ragged looking travelling fur from an unlocked chest. He threw the fur atop the horse and Castiel tucked around the body – doing his best to obscure its tell-tale human stature and shape. When he looked back to Dean, Dean was already looping his hand through the mare’s reigns and clicking his tongue to lead her forward. She was a good creature, and somehow aware of the urgent need for silence in the movement, as they lead her through the streets.

Dean held her reigns and kept his eyes directly ahead, as he lead them through the streets. Atop the horse, Castiel felt exposed and vulnerable, but Lydia was careful at the back to watch for threats and they made it to the Gates without interference. There, Dean left Castiel without a word, and crept into Bobby’s office to locate a key and unlock the door there. When he had succeeded, he crept back and with a small smile, whispered to Castiel that he would dismiss the men at the upper barracks and give Castiel the signal when he was safe to ride. In the meantime, they were to hide in the shadows, and play at drunken lovers should anyone pass by.

Lydia was silent as Dean left the square at a run, but she kept  her hand firmly placed on Barachiel’s body as they waited, eyes on the upper ramparts, for sight of Dean and assurance of their safety.

“I’m sorry, for insulting your brother,” she conceded quietly, while they waited, still staring straight ahead.

Castiel looked to her quickly, but her face remained placid and carefree – as though she were watching a boring courtly ceremony and she ignored his survey.

“I am sorry, that he did not love you as he should.”

“Hm,” she sighed and brushed a loose hair from her face. “My heart is still his, regardless.”

She left it at that. There was only silence for a few minutes before the sound of frantic footsteps rang through the square and Lydia moved to Castiel quickly, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Pretend I’m Dean, and it won’t hurt,” she whispered carefully, before leaning close and embracing him tightly. Castiel started, but buried his face in her hair as the footsteps crossed the square and moved his hands as though searching her body with wonder. Against him, Lydia stiffened but played along, letting out a giggle and sighing softly.

“Please. Dean! Where are you?”

The voice jolted Lydia from the play, and a second later, the sound of an infant’s cry rang out through the clearing. At once, Lydia sprung away from Castiel and ran toward the centre of the square, where a tearful woman garbed in a nightgown tried to smother the cries of the wailing infant at her chest, cooing softly: “Please, Sam, please. Not now.”

“Ruby? What-“

“Lydia! Please, where is Dean? Has he gone?”

Her eyes fell to Castiel and then to the horse and disguised body beside him, and she hiccupped with fear as Lydia reached her and grabbed at her arm.

“What are you-“

“He has to go, now! Now! They’re coming.”

She rushed forward to Castiel, still pushing the infant child at her breast as though she could silence him, but the position only served to aggravate him further, and he yelled, raucously, as she cried: “You have to take him! Take him now and go!”

The babe was in Castiel’s arms before he could address it, while Lydia stood by in horror as the woman crumpled to the ground and sobbed. “Please! Hurry!”

The child wailed at Castiel – red-faced and aggravated – and he stood like a statue, until Lydia cried: “Go! Now! You have to go!”

She ripped the child from his arms and gestured to the horse, which he mounted in a hurry, almost sliding off the other side as Lydia reached upwards to hold the child out to him.

“What? I-“

“Please! Please, you have to take him!” Ruby cried from the ground, her face running with the kohl that had been on her eyelids as her mouth twisted into a panicked grimace. The next moment, the otherwise silent nature of the square was shattered as the clash of steel on steel sounded from the ramparts above, and Dean’s shout echoed through the area.

“Oh God!”

Lydia pushed the child into Castiel’s arms and pulled the mare forward to the door. Castiel, above her, twisted in the saddle to look out to the square, where he saw a rush of soldiers arrive, identify them and thunder forwards.

“Cas!” Dean cried out from above the ramparts, and a moment later a body fell from the wall to land with a crack in the square – it’s head bursting and scattering across the cobbles and drawing yells of horror from the men near enough to be splattered with it.

They reached the door of the office and the mare shied away from the small space. Quickly, Castiel dismounted her and Lydia attempted and succeeded to lead her through, though the mare kicked and bit in aggravation. At his chest, the child yelled louder, though it was drowned out with the din of the attack being waged above. Ruby, in a fit of effort, had raced to close the office door and was buttressing it with planks along its middle. She looked back to Castiel and screamed: “Run!” before turning backwards and pushing over a bookcase, so that it fell across the doorway. The mare moved outside, and Lydia pushed him through the stone archway, the child still in his arms. “Wait!” She reached down for a moment and tore a strip from her skirts, reaching up and tying it around Castiel’s neck before moving the child from his arms and bundling him in the material.

“I-I can’t take this child. I’m going to turn-“

Lydia froze as she met Castiel’s eyes, and then her gaze dropped to the body at the mare’s neck. Her eyes flickered to Ruby, who tearfully pleaded with her, even though her gaze was fixed on the door, before she nodded and quickly removed the swaddling from Castiel’s neck and hung it around hers, placing the child in its safety and clambering atop the horse with Castiel’s assistance.

The door began to swell with the force of men pushing at it, and Ruby shrieked in terror as the tip of a spear pierced through it.

“Go, go, go!”

Lydia looked back tearfully at Castiel as she passed through the office door. “You can fly behind me?”

He nodded and quickly wrenched off his fur, leaving it on the base of the office as she stumbled out through the threshold of the door and into the open night. On the other side of the wall, there was a yell, as another man was thrown from the ramparts, before the sound of Dean’s shout and a cry of pain. “Cas!”

“Dean!”

Lydia’s head whirled around as the mare began to trot towards the forest. “Castiel! No! Come, now!”

He met her eyes for a moment, before looking up to see a man thrown against the wall drop his sword, and watched the weapon whistle down past him to land in the ground only metres from where he stood. Lydia’s eyes widened and the baby wailed, and he shouted towards her: “Go! I will meet you in the forest!”

She gulped and nodded, squeezing her legs around the mare and starting forward, racing towards the treeline with surprising speed for a woman unused to horse riding. Within thirty seconds, she had disappeared within the treeline, and while men yelled from the ramparts that she was escaping, there was sufficient noise that the warning did not make it to the men in the square, who yelled beyond the wall to force down the door.

Castiel’s wing was injured, but there was enough strength in it to force him to the wall, and make a few quick bursts of speed to climb it. With the tips of his fingers, he pulled himself upwards letting the wings beat his pathway. Just below the tip of the wall, he withdrew a knife from his waist and held it at the ready before pushing off it and falling backwards, letting his wings catch the gale and riding it upwards to circle around and swoop down.

He didn’t think twice about fighting his way to Dean. The plan had been that Dean would not be compromised – that he would exit the City discretely, and Dean would install himself as a secure ruler. But now, however it had happened, that was shot to dust, and Dean was being forced to arm himself against his own men in a bid to manage the circumstance. Whatever that meant for his stay in the City now or ever, it was enough that Castiel would go to him and recover him.

The men screamed as he bore down on them, and he swept low, forcing them to cower so that Dean’s body amidst the mass of them might be made apparent. It was, for Dean stood tall and fearless, reaching for Castiel’s hand as he swooped low and fastening his grip on it. Castiel didn’t have the strength to drag Dean far, and his wings buckled under the added weight as he slung Dean across the ramparts. It was enough merely to swing him to an emptier part and release, before he was rolling and catching himself – his wing tearing open and the stitches bursting as the cobbles ate at the flesh with fire.

Dean wrenched him up as soon as he had ceased rolling and lead him at a run across the ramparts, yelling to keep an eye out, for there might be more coming.

“Who do they want?”

“Both of us, I don’t know!” Dean yelled, as he grabbed Castiel’s hand and tugged him to the side, throwing them down a staircase and onto a lower level of ramparts.

Descending back into the City made Castiel nervous, but Dean seemed set in his route, and he had no choice but to follow with chaos raging around them. Dean pulled them into a small alley, which led to an outer balcony of ramparts and kept them out of sight of those in the square and above them and whirled on Castiel – hands going immediately to his injured wing.

“Can you still fly?”

Castiel gasped and bit his tongue as pain scorched through the tendons at the touch of Dean’s fingers and Dean withdrew quickly, biting his lip at the innate answer in the cry. Above them, feet thundered as the men yelled to locate them.

“Come on.”

Dean grabbed Castiel’s hand again and recommenced running, leading them around the back of the City and to an outer staircase that cut down into the wall of the ramparts and a narrow tunnel. Castiel tucked his wings into him, but they were too large for the cavity, and he hissed as the walls brushed the feathers and sensitive joints as Dean sprinted them downwards, towards whatever exit he presumed they could rely on.

He held them back, and pressed them against the wall at the sound of oncoming footsteps, and they watched the shadows of a few soldiers pass, still pulling on their armour and yelling to one another – speculating as to the cause of the commotion. They both breathed heavily as they waited out the passing, and Dean descended a few more stairs to check their path was clear. He stumbled back up when another set of men ran past and pulled Castiel up a few stairs.

“Shit, Cas. We have to get you out of here.”

“Dean, if they’re after you too-“

“I know.”

He looked up at Castiel quickly, and his irises shook with tension. “What am I gonna do? Sammy’s here, and-“

“Ruby may have sent him away. Lydia has already gone, with Samuel.”

“Ruby what?”

Dean shuddered they heard a yell above them: “find him!”, called out by what must have been a familiar voice, but said with such aggressiveness, before he looked back to Castiel, eyes wide.

“Ruby-“

“She came with the child. She told Lydia and I that we all had to leave. Immediately. Something has gone wrong, Dean. You have to run.”

“Sam-“

Dean trailed off and looked upwards again, searching for the sound of footsteps above them.

“Shit, Cas. I can’t leave him.”

“Where is he?”

“His chambers? I-“

The sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs had them running again, and Dean lead Castiel into the streets of Ardus at a run, keeping their heads down and direction certain. Within the cottages they passed, citizens stirred and set candles, wondering at the spectacle that appeared to be playing out on their streets. As the door to one cottage opened, and a bleary eyed man stumbled out, Dean pulled Castiel down a small alley.

They curled and hid as another set of men rushed passed, armed and yelling, and Castiel whispered to Dean hurriedly. “Dean, they cannot implicate him. But they can you. You have to run.”

“I’m not leaving him!”

“Your friends will not leave him. What can be done to him? He’s a good citizen, and Ruby... she must have a plan for him.”

“Cas, I-“

Dean’s voice cracked as he met Castiel’s eyes and shook his head. “I won’t leave him. I can’t. He’s my brother. If they were gonna hurt Samuel, they might hurt him. He has to come with us.”

Castiel searched Dean’s face for a moment, and within it, he saw written Barachiel’s broken promise to Lydia, and correspondingly, his Father’s broken promise to him. With a thud, the conclusion hit him with certainty, and such conviction that there was no space to feel fear.

For Dean, it was anything.

“Will you be able to find him?”

“Maybe? I-“

Castiel nodded and crawled forwards, drawing a dagger, and whispering hurriedly as his free hand reached out and traced the form of Dean’s hand. Once. Last.

“Then run, now. Find him and take him from the City. You’ll have to find Lydia. She’ll need your help.”

“Wait, Cas-“

Castiel looked down at Dean once and shook his head.

“We have no chance of finding him and escaping together. We have to take our chances apart. Go now. They’ll come after me first, and you can sneak into the Palace. Find Sam and run. I’ll meet you if I can, in the forest. In my cottage. Go.”

It was a lie, and Dean’s heart froze for a millisecond as he understood it.

Dean stumbled to his feet, mouth curling open in a snarl as he reached out to Castiel and beckoned him back. “Cas. No! You can’t-“

Castiel shook his head again and raised his dagger. “It’s done, Dean. I’m done, in any event. Run with your brother. Stay safe. I love you.”

Dean may have been fast enough to catch Castiel if he’d had a longer distance, but Castiel only had to make the dash to the street, and the moment he was there, he was recognised. Dean followed him in vain, only to be forced to duck behind the cover of some barrels, when Castiel was spotted and he sprinted in the direction of the City, letting his wings spread and allowing him to glide smoothly above the ground. The task ached, but in the rush of the farewell – to Dean, and to life, he now realised – he was able to hold himself securely, and make his nature known. Citizens screamed as he passed, and he raised his weapon in threat. On the ramparts, there were yells as further soldiers recognised the City’s assailant and bore down the ramparts to get at him.

He played the part.

He could not fly, but he spread his wings as far as the injury would let, so that his form was unmistakeable. He bared his teeth and hissed at citizens as he ran through the streets towards the square, and growled in the terrified eyes of men who pursued him.

The square was swarming by the time he made it there, but his bulk meant the crowds parted as he ran through them. It was a bold move, to descend to the place of conflict, but his presence in the area would attract the gaze of the ramparts too, allowing the streets to be clear for Dean. Momentarily, it paid off, as he wove through a crowd to stunned to manage anything other than screams of horror, but a few of the well-trained or perhaps bloodthirsty were quick to react, and one well-placed dagger cut through part of his wing and he stumbled, in time for the men to hurl themselves onto him and grab at his hands.

The catch of he blade across already injured flesh was enough to have him stumble. And surreally, his rampage was over before it had even commenced – seemingly unfitting for a life so long lived. Arms reached forward roughly and grabbed at him from all sides, forcing him backwards and restraining him. He fought against the touch, but without the sincerity that was required for escape. The dagger in his hand was theatre only – he intended no true harm in it, and without such intention he would not be free. It all might have happened so quickly that he would not have even had the chance to consider the magnitude of the act he had just performed for Dean, but that his Father had a hand in it, and he was reprieved for a few moments.

Or perhaps he was tortured – by an atrocious sight before he died. A man holding him raised a dagger, ready to plunge it through his chest and into his heart when a scream tore out across the City. Even the soldiers holding Castiel looked up, in time to see the body of an Angelus hurtle towards the square, teeth bared and hissing.

With incredulity, the City watched as it fell closer and closer, seemingly unaware of the sigils that ought to have protected the City, and horror swept the square as they realised that their boundaries were breached, and they were to be laid siege to.

Of course they were. Dean had left the marks at the wall blemished. The City was laid bare.

The men acted quickly, and Castiel was all but forgotten in the haste to rush to the wall and discern the failing of the marks. Soldiers rushed for Bobby’s office – the door of which had long since been torn down – and grabbed for paintbrushes, racing alongside the walls and hollering that there had been a breach.

The rest spread as the Angelus swept down through the City, seizing one poor soul between its talons and pulling him upwards. The man screamed as the creature bit into the flesh of his neck and tore it. Then he was silent, and his blood rained down on the City.

Enough men had the sense to hold onto Castiel, and they dragged him backwards with them as they sought shelter in an alley. He kicked and fought and bit, but they held firm and pressed on him with their bulk. He cried for his Father and for Dean and for some kind of deliverance, but there was none. Only the kick of boots and the butts of swords. They were incessant and wilful in a way he almost hadn’t anticipated – it was as though he were a tame animal being beaten as a wild one. Too caring to react. And each blow inflicted injury, until he was useless against them anyway. Mere minutes after he had farewelled Dean, without ceremony, he looked upwards, battered and bloody, around his swollen eyes, to see a sword raise and descend in a graceful arc. He gargled as the tip pierced and then skewered his throat.

As it twisted, severing his windpipe and carving a hole the size of a gold coin in the flesh, he heard the sound a heart beat thud to a stop and a wrangled twisted scream. Above him, he saw another man fall from the sky from the claws of an Angelus. And then the sky turned to pinpricks of light, which filtered out one by one, like dying stars, until he was in darkness.

When he awoke, it was in an empty tomb.

...

** 2013 **

With Castiel’s Grace reinstalled, the chorus of the heavenly host was once again available to him. The volume was too much, and he bore it only momentarily before his body clamped down upon it and silenced it in his eardrums. But it was enough time to hear the echoes of surprise and delight reverberate through the link, and to send the greetings and praises of hundreds of thousands of his brothers and sisters to his heart.

They were alive, they were restored, and they sang of God in Heaven and their delight in him.

Even at the promise that his brothers and sisters were rejoicing – that their torment was over – he remained separate from them. Instead, he sat meditative in the sparse surrounds of the hospital.

Was that the correct term? That was what Sam had called it as they drove here at breakneck speed, Jessica in tears in the back seat as she held an immobile Greg in her lap.

Greg was unconscious – deeply unconscious, he had been informed by a man in a white jacket with a lined face and bleary eyes. There was no medical explanation for his collapse, other than the infliction of severe emotional distress to his body. “We’ve never seen anything like this before... but I promise you, we are doing everything we can for your friend.”

Sam and Bobby had followed the man to question him further, but Castiel had stayed resolute in his chair, staring directly forward and statue-still, while Jessica had gripped his hand tightly and wiped at her cheeks sporadically, every time her tears regenerated anew.

On the drive, he had lain his hand upon Greg’s forehead multiple times, and had sent increasingly stronger and stronger massages of Grace across his body. Greg’s liver was now as new, and his heart would not give your for another eighty years, at least. But still, he did not wake and his mind did not respond to a touch, no matter how tender and encouraging.

His Grace was restored, but Greg was not.

After six hours, they were permitted to see Greg, while he awaited his next “scan”. “It’s not entirely vegetative,” the man in the white coat had explained solemnly, while Jessica leaned against Sam and shook with silent tears, “his brain is responding. But we cannot yet prompt him into waking.”

The man was harried and seemed reluctant to answer too many questions, despite the fact that his voice was kind and his eyes were concerned. When the man was done with them, he departed hurriedly, and Castiel heard him only minutes later enter into the next room and commence speaking with another group, all of whom were similarly aggrieved. But their terror worsened when the man informed them that the injury to the brain stem was likely to be permanent, and one woman screamed at the news. Castiel avoided listening after that.

In the time they sat with Greg, the group seemed careful to allow Castiel whatever proximity or distance he wished with Greg, without question. At first, he was wary – too aware of the fact that Greg’s presence in this room had been due to the explosion of his Grace from its constraints of flesh. Somehow, it had impacted him in the mind only, yet not the body, and left him unresponsive. Though Castiel had never known of if, or how such an event had happened.

Across his skin, his true face still gaped outwardly. But it was still and sleeping, rather than animated, and the longer Castiel stared at it, the more he came to pity the thing. So much so, that he eventually moved across the room to take Greg’s hand, and then to sit beside him on the bed, tracing the lines of movement across his skin and reading their history. Cracked and dry, from years of self-abandonment in the face of more pressing needs. Rough at the heel and the knuckles – violence at some stage. Short, torn at nails and beds – anxiety and fretfulness too. All marks of stubborn endurance, yet internal disintegration.

Bobby, surprisingly, took to officious arrangements. He departed the room twice to bring back meals for the group, and sourced blankets and pillows from an unknown location when Sam and Jessica fell asleep in their various chairs around midnight. He liaised with various official-looking persons who came and left the room, depositing various substances into Greg’s skin through transparent tubes and needles, and attaching him to various screened objects that beeped and drew lines on a black background intermittently.

Castiel stared at Greg until his true face was obscured and his human features seeped through – a delicate, tired looking face, pale lips and lightly freckled skin. Overnight, stubble grew across his cheeks and jawline and was rough to Castiel’s touch when he traced it cautiously.

He stared at his lips the most, and felt the phantom touch of them on his own over and over until they were permanently abuzz with the memory of the sensation. Even in the face of the deformity that was Greg’s true face, the taste he left behind was pure and sincere. And even despite Dean and the tragedy before him, Castiel was drawn to it rather than repelled.

Greg, please wake up.

It ought to have been a sensible conclusion to ask for help. But Castiel was so unused to it that it seemed a day before the prospect of his prayers being answered actually occurred to him. Even then, the prayer itself only emerged out of habit, when he leaned over Greg’s fingers, entwined with his own (in the absence of company in the room) and he huffed out a muffled plea into the stark white sheets of the hospital bed: “Please, Father. Please, help him. What have I done?”

The reply was instantaneous, marked by the flutter of wings, though Castiel was too disbelieving to respond until a cautious hand was laid upon his shoulder and he felt the twist of a comforting Grace enfold his own.

“Brother, I am here. Why did you wait so long to ask?”

 


	32. Of Such Fragile Composition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hello my dearest readers! My apologies that this chapter is a few days late (and my further apologies, for I feel like I am saying this a lot lately. It ought to be the last time, as at the time of writing this, I am halfway through the final chapter, which is still a three chapters off this one, so everything should be uploaded in a timely fashion from now on). I do have a good excuse – I’ve been rather ill the past few days and unable to do much aside from sniffle and stare at the bottom of the toilet bowl. But I went to hospital though and they gave me many wonderful drugs that have perked me up significantly! Am feeling much much better now and happy to be back writing!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the chapter, and do not hate me too much for what I am about to do…

** Chapter Thirty-One **

** 2013 **

Gabriel was aged, even though that was impossible, in the lifespan of an Angel. Within a vessel, they were immovable to time and outside of it they were material that was beyond its grasp. Barring accident, they were immortal within the span of the Universe, and the space they were able to inhabit outside of it. For all intents and purposes, that might have been forever – the matter was simply never raised, except for the prospect that Death would one day reap the life force of the universe .

Still, his vessel was tarred with effort visible to even a human eye – lines at the edges of his eyes and slightly drooping skin around his cheeks. His expression too, bright as it was at their reunion, was wearied and effortful.

“Hello Castiel.”

They had never touched much, aside from standard grooming and the mechanics of curing physical malady, but Gabriel accepted his embrace as naturally as a human might accept another’s and held him tight, as Castiel reached for him and clutched at him desperately.

“You’re recovered.”

“Father did, yes. It took him long enough.”

He knotted his hands in Castiel’s shirt and held him close for a moment, before stepping back and letting his gaze fall to Greg in the hospital bed – still immovable and entirely unaware of the quantum increase of power and Grace now concentrated in the room.

Castiel went quickly to his side and raised his hand to hold it in his.

“This is-“

“I know already, brother. Your Dean is well-known in Heaven, even if not always for the right reasons.”

Castiel’s hand squeezed around Greg’s fingers so tightly he felt his knuckles crack with the exertion, and the quick escape of gas from between the joints.

“H-he is Dean?”

Gabriel’s face dropped and he looked to where Castiel’s hand was cradled around Greg’s, before his gaze flickered up to Greg’s placated face on the bed. There was no horror as he took in the sight of his true form before him – only a quick, careful study that seemed to reaffirm a matter with which Gabriel was familiar, before he looked back to Castiel blankly.

“Yes. When you unleashed your Grace, you brought him forward to full consciousness. Before his mind collapsed around him.”

With Gabriel’s confirmation of the matter which Castiel had not dared to think of, any barrier between Greg and himself dissolved at once, and immediately he was leaning closer to Greg, pressing his forehead against his and pleading against his skin. “No. No, please wake up.”

Gabriel allowed him a moment of silence, shifting uncomfortably behind him and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I heard your prayer, brother. Without your Grace active, it was difficult to track you. I came as soon as I could.”

Castiel heaved out a breath and looked up from Greg to stare at Gabriel. “The others, are they-?”

“I had to fight with Anael and Barachiel to get to you. They both wanted to be the one to answer, but... messenger of God.”

He pointed to himself with a small chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes as his eyes descended to Greg’s face again and where Castiel’s other hand now rested on his forehead with a slight tremble. Castiel might have been angry in any other circumstance – Gabriel’s blasé nature to the fact that Greg was lying, seemingly beyond assistance in a hospital bed. And after years of being apart, that Gabriel was so quick to joke. But there was a disingenuousness to it that made his stomach acid curdle. Gabriel’s presence meant the matter required delicate communication and the touch of an archangel.

“Gabriel, can you heal him?”

Gabriel pursed his lips and paced slowly over to Greg, holding a hand out awkwardly over his ankle, before eventually letting it drop and clasping there. He felt once, twice around the bones, before drawing back and looking at Castiel in the eyes.

“It’s a little more complicated than a yes or a no, brother. There’s some things that we need to... we gotta talk.”

Without ceremony he let go Greg’s ankle and made his way to the doorway, turning and arching and eyebrow when Castiel failed to follow. “We got boys on standby, Castiel. He’ll be fine.”

Castiel looked down and traced Greg’s cheek once before letting go his fingers and moving around the bed to catch up with Gabriel. As they made their way through the doorway, Gabriel almost ran completely into Jessica who whirled around the corner and fell back with a surprised gasp. Gabriel smirked and Castiel – despite the severity of the moment, was briefly irritated – as if his brother, a fully infused Angel, had not had any idea of their impending collision.

“Oh goodness, I’m sorry!”

“Fault’s all mine, sweetheart,” Gabriel said with a wink, before looking back to Castiel and clicking his tongue. There was a bated moment, as Jessica stood, absorbing the implication of Gabriel’s tone – confusing in its somber playfulness, before she murmured: “Cas?”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder to Castiel and raised an eyebrow. Castiel ignored the gesture in favor of stepping past him and escorting Jessica quickly away. It was pointless, since Gabriel could have heard what they spoke of from miles away, but the semblance of privacy was enough.

“I have to leave, for a little while. I need you to watch over Greg.”

Jessica nodded blankly, but seemed largely ignorant to the instruction as she eyed Gabriel suspiciously. “Who is that?”

Castiel’s gaze flickered back quickly to Gabriel, who jostled on his heels and grinned at Jessica. With a swallow, Castiel mumbled his answer, eyes wide in intimation that Jessica ought to remain calm: “my brother, Gabriel.”

To her credit, Jessica’s shock was well-contained, only that her hand rose to her mouth to cover a gasp and she stumbled a little backwards into the wall. Castiel caught her with a hand to her arm, and steadied her, surprised when he felt a violent tremble run in an undercurrent beneath her skin. When she eventually felt comfortable to remove her hand, she was still breathing harshly, and seemed incapable of squeezing words out in the space between her shock. “Greg, he has to help him!”

“He will, I’ve asked. We... we have a few things to discuss. Please just... stay with him, until I return.”

Jessica nodded dumbly and fumbled for Castiel’s hand, squeezing it once, before she let it drop. “Please. Please just hurry back. I can’t...”

“I know. I promise I will be back.”

She nodded quickly and wiped at the corner of her eye – perhaps in relief, or out of sheer overwhelmed hysteria. Either way, she was resolute enough to stand straight and to hurry past Gabriel into Greg’s room, taking a seat and dragging it so it sat close beside his bed, before assuming Castiel’s position of vigil – holding Greg’s hand tightly between both of hers.

Gabriel watched her quietly before he crossed the room to Castiel, smiling softly. “Sweet company you keep, brother.”

Castiel only looked down at his feet in response, and Gabriel seemed content to let the matter drop. He reached out, without hesitation, and clasped Castiel’s arm. “I guess your wings are out of practice?”

“I haven’t-“

Gabriel just clicked his tongue again and rolled his eyes. “Figures, hold on.”

In the next moment, his enormous wings had spread, comprised of a material too fine and powerful to be constrained by the dimensions of the hospital, and he launched them from the surface of the earth to that dimension in the heavens, that Castiel had never imagined he might again call home.

...

Castiel had been to the Library very few times in his tenure as an Angel. He was a soldier, through and through, rather than a scribe – too restless for the Halls of Light, and too enamored with exploring each individual molecule of his Father’s latest creations elsewhere to be happily bound to Heaven. Still, his return there was a pleasant breath of divinity – the smell of sunlight and birth like a whimsy of nostalgia that spread through his body and relaxed him immediately.

Gabriel was hasty in leading them through the shelves, despite the rise of every Angel in the vicinity, as high as Seraphs and as low as Cherubs. They bowed as he passed and their true faces were radiant as they appraised him. It was him that they stared at, not Gabriel, and the sensation was too much to bear without explanation. He kept his head down and his eyes forward as Gabriel failed to loosen his grip on his arm.

Like human libraries, there were areas that were less carefully taken care of than others. As humans souls passed transiently in and out of the earthly dimension, they took on immediate relevance to Heaven’s operations. Once they were successfully installed in their own personal heaven, there was little need for their records. They were stored in grand vaults within dimensions – saved for access in an event that none had particularized. Naturally, though, their Father had an intention.

In the more remote dimensions, the tomes were musty in that the scent of ozone was less fresh. But, in a sense, it was purer and cleaner – derived from the days where Angels had been assembled of a purer force from the atoms of the Universe. They were tarnished now from a smoggy interference, but still comprehensibly divine. It was the nature of things, that they would sully over time. Heaven, themselves, even their Father – there was no exception to it. Death, as he proudly declared to all who would hear him, was universal.

The order of the volumes was difficult to discern, for a passing soldier, and Castiel was lost in the labyrinth of knowledge assembled before him. Gabriel, however, despite his own propensity to avoid the Library at all costs, seemed well-educated in his movements around and escorted them to a small enclave, already set with a table and set with mountains of tomes. Beside the piles, there were heaps of leather-bound volumes – oxygen carving out space on the surface of each for a name and a soul to be instilled in the fabric of the Heavenly Universe, each setting out within family trees, illustrating visages and describing, in minutiae, ancient details of lives endured long ago.

Gabriel hunted quickly through the stack to extract a few crucial texts. The majority were adorned at the front with the handwriting of the human souls they housed, and outlined with the twisted tendrils of a guardian angel’s grace.. Most of the names were unfamiliar to Castiel as they flashed past him, but he noted that the name _Edward Braithwaite_ passed his vision. Gabriel smiled as he deposited that volume in his pile of discarded texts. That of _Lydia Cobalt_ was adorned as the others – her name written in elaborate and flourishing script. There was effort in it, but it was for the most part content. The thrum of its titling suggested that her soul was well-settled in her heavenly realm contained with the text, and residing contently. It was a momentary relief to Castiel in the otherwise rising thud of anticipation that settled in his belly and pulsed there, bloating him from the inside with panic.

They passed a volume for _Jessica Moore_ too. It was allocated a wide ream of pages to fill, and was as of yet unadorned with the Grace or soul that indicated she had passed on – there was still more space to fill. Instead, her name was carved emptily into the cover, awaiting the insertions of her guardian Angel and her own soul, upon her arrival through the Gates. Gabriel waggled it in front of Castiel has he allocated it to a smaller pile on the side of the table. “This doesn’t do her justice, that’s for sure.”

Eventually, Gabriel settled on a rougher and older looking set of books, all variably musty in their scent. There were three upon which the names were obscured entirely, smudged with black charcoal until its holder had been obfuscated from its cover. The edges were blemished and spoke to ill repair, and there was an odd emptiness to their cores as Gabriel positioned it beside him. The other three were less empty – they hummed with the sense of an active soul covered by their pages, but they were not as Lydia’s – actually housing the creature. Rather, they seemed to await instruction – yet unlike Jessica’s, their awaiting was a tired, unenthusiastic one. As though they had awaited far too long, and their interiors were fossilizing.

Gabriel then lead Castiel, arms full, to another alcove and shut the door behind him one-handed, before depositing the books carefully on the table and taking a seat opposite Castiel. With a wary look, he laid them out one-by-one, and positioned them so Castiel could see the names carved into their covers – at least, those that were legible.

_The Righteous Man_

_Sam Winchester_

_Bobby Singer_

Each book was teeming – unable to close in a way that would have it sit flat. Rather, the covers sat almost vertical, as the contents within the books bulged outwards, and haphazard loose pages of notes peeked out from where they had been slid between pages hurriedly.

Castiel’s eyes drifted quickly to the three marred tomes, none of which were bursting with such content. Rather, they sat flat and empty on the table, deprived completely of the energy of an infused soul – empty vessels without direction. Gabriel looked at Castiel carefully, but failed to answer the silent query, instead pulling Dean’s volume towards him and running his thumb idly along the edge of the pages.

“Your boy, Dean. He caused a lot of problems up here, trying to get back to you.”

Castiel looked up hurriedly and met Gabriel’s eyes, dropping open his mouth to speak. Gabriel scarcely accorded him the chance, before he reached to a bookmarked section and flipped the book open. The rush of a tornado filled the room as the material of their surroundings sprung apart and reassembled itself, and in his stomach, Castiel felt the rush of Dean’s soul permeate the atmosphere and commence its narrative.

** 1425 **

Dean watched Castiel go with his heart caught in his throat and desperate cry on his lips: _No. No, Cas. I love you._

There was a cry from further up the street as he was caught sight of, and in that miniscule moment, Dean knew it was enough to condemn him. His entry and exit to the City, injured as he was, had to be quiet and incidental. His reveal was enough to ensure – barring divine interference, the sigils would be completed and he would be retained. Unless Dean could get to him first. He took off at a run in the opposite direction, scaling the wall of a cottage to run along the rooftops – keeping an eye out for the direction of soldiers. They were flooding to the City Square, where Castiel had headed, presumably in his pursuit, so Dean hugged the wall of the City in response, keeping low and quiet, but relying on speed, rather than passing inconspicuously to keep himself hidden. He was spotted by a few citizens who heard his activities on the rooftops. But with his blade out and his eyes half-mad, they must have assumed he was moving to help the men of the City at the square, and so made no move to draw attention to his escape. Instead, the merely ran inside their cottages and slammed the doors shut, smothering the cries of children as they quaked in their beds.

Dean made it to the Palace in minutes, and hid behind some barrels while more soldiers poured out from its front doors – presumably leaving their posts in protection of the Princess to attend to the City more generally. Wherever Lilith was, she was presumably under lock and key, and unlikely to be harmed in the proceedings. Regardless, Dean kept his head down, and cut a quick cloak from a split hessian sack while he hid. He had no idea where the orders had come for his recovery, only that they had – or else his men would not have attacked him so immediately on the ramparts, without at least awaiting further explanation. He wrapped the hessian around his face, in the hope that the immediately coverage would at least be enough to allow him to leave anyone who saw him in enough confusion that they would not pursue him immediately. It was not his identity he needed to protect – merely the path for his escape route with Sam, before word spread too quickly around the City.

When the doorway was clear, he made his entry as quickly as possible, keeping his head down and barreling forwards past confused servants who were peering out of the kitchens and speculating as to the source of the noise. He brushed past a few of them as he thundered through, and there were a few angry calls that he ought to “watch where he was going”, clearly unaware they were directed at effective royalty.

In truth, Dean hadn’t expected to find Sam in his chambers. But upon bursting in there, as a point of first call, he was shocked to see Sam standing in the middle of the room, sword hung loosely at his waist and dressed haphazardly in armor that every man in the City (regardless of occupation) held for occasions such as a breach, and looking around tearfully.

“Sam, what-“

“I don’t know where they are. When it started, I came here to protect them. But... the crib’s empty, and she’s packed a few of his things. I don’t know where-“

“They’ve already gone, we have to go!”

Dean grabbed for his brother’s hand and hauled him from the room, dragging him halfway down the corridor without explanation, before the sound of voices at the other end of the corridor had Dean wrenching open the nearest door and throwing his brother into it. Sam, despite his bulk, was shocked enough to go willingly, and he nodded quickly when Dean pressed a finger to his lips before dropping and looking out the keyhole. Two bodies passed by but didn’t bother to investigate the area, instead only running to the square as they all did, yelling aimlessly for citizens of the Palace to stay indoors. When they passed, Dean whirled on Sam, who was looking panicked as he stared at the door before them.

“Dean?”

Dean moved quickly to his brother and whispered hurriedly as he extracted a small knife from his waist and hung it at Sam’s hip.

“Something’s gone wrong, Sammy. The guards are after me, and I don’t know why. Cas... Cas is in the City. And now they’re after him. We need to get out. We need to leave. Whatever’s happening, I think were both in danger.”

“Ruby?”

Sam’s voice cracked as his eyes flickered towards the door, in response to the clatter of armor from father abroad.

“She met us at the Gates. Forced Samuel onto Lydia and told her to run. Cas said Lydia’s already gone to the forest.”

“Why is-“

“I don’t know, but he’ll be safe with her. I’m sure of it.” Sam’s eyes widened when Dean’s voice betrayed the fact he wasn’t. “We have to go, now.”

Sam nodded and let Dean drag him forward towards the door, dropping forward to investigate the keyhole again, for a sign that their path was clear.

“What about Cas?”

Dean stiffened at the hole and looked up to Sam blearily, before standing and twisting at the doorknob.

“Bastard is sacrificing himself so we can get out. Once you’re past the Wall, I’m going back for him.”

Sam only nodded and stated blithely: “I’m coming with you.”

Dean growled in response and closed the door, turning to his brother. “You are getting out of this alive. And that’s the end of it. He’s out there right now, so that I could get you out. And you are going to do that for him and me. No matter what happens.”

Sam quailed, swallowed and nodded quickly, not bothering to argue in the face of Dean’s desperation and following silently when Dean pushed the door open and recommenced his race down the Palace. He lead Sam quickly through twisting passageways down into the basement of the castle. The dungeons were lower, and Dean lead them blindly, seeking out the route that he knew was there, but had never before seen. Pipes under the castle, for excretement and stormwater. The only way out of the castle but for guarded gates which would by now have been buttressed and blocked to any entry or exit, save for that of the Princess herself. Dean could have cried when he finally heard the telltale drip of moisture that marked their proximity, and gave a delighted cry as he grabbed for Sam’s arm and pulled him through.

Remarkably, the room was empty, as if none had anticipated their arrival. Dean quickly motioned for Sam to drop and unlace his boots. Sam stared at him, confused, but did as he was bidden. “If they’re dry when you get out, your feet won’t blister as badly. And they’ll make it too easy to track, if they’re wet. Don’t put them on until you’re out of the City.”

Sam nodded hurriedly and commenced with his unlacing, fingers shaking as he pulled at the knots of his boots and folded them under his arm when he was done.

“There’s a cabin, three days north of here – head towards the mountains and look for the river. It’s got busted out windows. Cas lived there. There’ll be food and water, and shelter for the winter, alright? You can take Lydia and Samuel-“

“Dean you have to come with me.”

Dean blanched and shook his head, crossing the floor quickly, to check for pursuers while Sam readied his supplies. “I’m going back for him.”

“Dean-“

“No.”

Dean adjusted his sword at his hip and looked back to his brother.

“I don’t care if he’s going to die anyway. If they get hold of him, they’ll hurt him. I’m not letting that happen, even if it’s only for a moment. He saved my life and I’ll save his. Even if it’s only got day’s left, alright?”

Sam bit his lip and stared at his brother, eyes wide. “Dean, you’ll die.”

“I don’t care.”

Sam gasped and pulled backwards, pausing in his unlacing. “I do! And Cas does too. Dean, the City needs you. Alastair could take over if you’re gone. He’s the only option that you’ve got. More people could die, if he gets his way. Cas sent you here because that’s what he wants. For you to save them.”

Dean shook his head abruptly. “I can’t anyway. Not now. They’ve got something against me. They’ll never let me lead. It’s over.”

“Then you need to get out of here.”’

“Not without him.”

“Dean-“

A clatter at the top of the stairs threw their conversation into silence and Dean pressed himself firmly against the wall as he watched for the descent of shadows, sword at the ready. Across the room, he motioned at Sam: “go!” Sam shook his head initially, but when there was another clatter and the sound of footsteps, he was forced to move, sloshing quickly through the waste and into the darkness of the tunnel. Halfway down, he turned and looked at Dean, in time to see his brother raise his sword and parry the attack of two soldiers who had come down to check on the area to ensure its security.

Dean grunted and heaved the man away from him, in time to smack the other over the head with the hilt of his sword. He crumpled soundlessly and caused the other guard to lose his balance. Dean took the opportunity to make his escape up the stairwell, disappearing lightly and carefully as his pursuer – somehow injured in the momentary altercation – ran after him, raising the alert: “He’s here! Get to him!”

...

** 2013 **

Castiel was wrenched from the sight as Gabriel closed the book in front of him and stared up somberly to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“What? But, Dean, I-“

“I’ll keep going, if you wish it. If you think you can watch.”

Castiel paused for a second, and swallowed a pulse of bile that rose from his stomach, before nodding carefully and setting his hands so that his fingernails dug into the table.

“This story doesn’t have a happy ending, Castiel.”

Castie gritted his teeth, and only nodded, staring forward at the text. Gabriel sighed softly and felt for another bookmark.

“What will come... it’s going to horrify you. You have to understand, our Father didn’t know.”

Castiel’s fingers carved out grooves of pulverized wood in the table as the universe around them reassembled itself, and Dean’s soul screamed through the empty air.

...

** 1425 **

Dean ran through the streets at such speeds that even those who now knew he was to be obtained for the benefit of the Princess, had no time to act. He made for the stables, the pathways to which were relatively clear, and took the last of the remaining animals tethered there - a young, scarcely broken stallion that was imbued with a kind of madness as he tossed in his stall, anxious to seek out the source of the action.

Dean saddled him in minute, securing the hold too tight around the horse’s waist, which scarcely seemed to bother him, in his heightened state. A travelling cloak hung in the stallion’s stable and he grabbed it as an afterthought, latching it around his chest and throwing the hood over his head. In truth, it seemed an artless gesture. But he performed it, nonetheless, as a cruel pantomime. He would leave here with Castiel, or he would die. And he had to act for the latter, even if it were hopeless.

He lead the horse out at a run, and swung atop his back when the creature had already commenced its gallop. The thunder of a horse through the streets was enough to part the crowds for him. The cloak was a beacon as much as a disguise and a few pointed in confusion as he passed. Any men that tried to stop him quelled as he raised his sword and ordered in a yell that they let him through. They did, with horrified stares, and sat aimlessly at the side of the road, staring as he followed.

The square was swollen with activity by the time he arrived. In the sky, three Angelus had been drawn to the carnage of the first, and they howled and dived, seizing men within their claws and tearing them limb from limb. Two were injured – a few well-aimed arrows having found the underside of their wings at the joint and having lodged there, but they rallied angrily against its assailants nonetheless. In only a few moments, Dean saw why, for when they made to retreat from the aggression they bounced off the sky at the walls of the City. The deficiency in the sigils had been marked and remedied to prevent further arrivals. They were trapped here to their fate now, regardless of how long that might take.

There was a horror-filled moment where Dean’s brain unhelpfully supplied the thought that the creatures were either Castiel or Balthazar, or even both – enlivened and returned, possibly having left Lydia and Samuel in shreds in their wake. But, as much as he had no grounds to make the decision, his bran supplied him with certainty that they were not. Castiel was alive, somewhere still. And he could yet be recovered, or at least accompanied, as he descended towards the abyss.

He rode the stallion to a small alcove and left him there, before scaling the wall of a cottage to a rooftop and staring out across the moving expanse for Castiel. There was no sign of him in the heaving, as there ought to have been, if he were still there. The focus of the entire square was centered on the Angelus in the sky, and bearing their increasingly aggravated attacks as they sought a way out. In the centre of the square, men prepared sticks of fire to pass to soldiers, which they wielded whenever a creature came too close, in an attempt to disincentivize attack. They scarcely seemed to work, however, but to attract the creatures to them, and in the minutes Dean surveyed the City, Dean saw three men fall with their hands clutched feebly at the stakes. On the stone, the fires burned out quickly, but in the chaos, many more stepped on them and found themselves alight.

Utter foolishness – where were their leaders? Neither Alastair nor Garth were visible in the heaving throng, and very few captains seemed to have yet attended the scene. Despite their training, the men were panicking visibly and their panic was enlivening their assailants, who picked up the feeblest most terrified boys, seemingly with maliciousness, and rode with them to the walls of the City, before dropping them from a hundred meters up in frustration when they could not make their escape.

Dean shimmied back down the roof when his search failed to materialize Castiel, enlivened perhaps by adrenaline, but by something more – hope, even, that Castiel might not yet be done for. If he was away from the square – saved from sacrifice by some miracle of divine intervention – then they might yet escape together. Castiel may be aching, but any time Dean had left with him would be the truest gift he had ever received, and his heart pounded with the possibility that he might be allowed to farewell Castiel, and help keep him safely apart, so that he could never become animal.

The hope was short-lived.

Dean commenced a comb of the streets on foot, hiding in doorways and emptied cottages whenever he was at risk of being seen. The streets were all but empty, except for a few men fleeing the carnage. Those that were quick enough to see Dean’s face posed no danger to him – they were too scared but to continue running in the direction of the Palace, hoping to seek some temporary shelter. As a soldier, their abandonment angered Dean, but as a human he could forgive their terror and let them pass, rather than ordering them back to the square to defend their City. Men would die, regardless, and there was little he could do to assist them if they were ready to turn on him as soon as he made himself known.

As Dean ran through the streets, searching for a sign of Castiel, he happened upon multiple bodies, fallen from the sky. They were splayed at odd angles, and some split apart by the force of the fall from the heavens. He tripped over more than one as he made his way hastily, eyes peeled for a stray feather or the hint of a familiar scent. If he were Castiel, where would he have run? How would he have thought fit to escape? Would he have followed Dean to the Palace?

Dean almost failed to look at the second body he tripped over it. The throat was ripped apart and the face swollen with meeting the splatter of fists and feet, left lying on its side in the middle of a street. He fumbled as he stood up, and wiped the hands that had landed in tacky blood on the body, before reaching for his weapon. He even used the body to push himself to a standing position, and made to walk away, before he froze, halfway around it, and his heart fell to his feet.

Castiel was broken on the ground, painfully human in his posture. His wings were so trampled and wet with mud and blood that they hung like rags from his shoulders, and Dean had mistaken them as such. His eyes were open and glassy, and his mouth almost relaxed in the way it was merely puckered over a quiet gasp as the life was torn from him. At his neck was a mess of flesh and tendon – spilled carelessly onto the cobbles by the wrench of a knife from his neck, pulled hastily to ward off the attack of a swooping Angelus.

Dean didn’t realize, but the hand that had taken Castiel from him lay severed from the rest of its body, some hundred meters over in the square, still clutched around the same blade, knuckles white as its owner screamed for his life.

The universe seemed sucked into a vacuum as Dean reached for Castiel’s shoulder and rolled him over onto his back. His neck flopped uselessly and the body twisted a long way without it. Dean, with a strangled sob, reached down and carefully brought the face around to stare at the sky.

“No. No no no no no no no no.”

Even with his muffled pleas into the skin, there was no answer, from Castiel, nor his maker, as his body lay lifeless on the streets, beaten beneath the tread of terrified boots as their wearers ran screaming from the square, hailing for their God to save them.

Dean vomited to the side of the Castiel, what little spittle his aching mouth could summon as it wound itself around expressions of horror and disdain and utter transfixed disbelief. In a moment, he was stumbling away from him, crawling backwards and staring in horror as his mind supplied the causal connection for him.  Castiel. Castiel was dead. Dead for Dean. Beaten and broken and lying forgotten on a street soaked with blood and piss. Gone from Dean while he had left him to rot and to sacrifice himself. For what? He didn’t remember. Why would he have left him?

The sound of screams and running feet had Dean stumbling into an abandoned cottage and curling up under a bench there. There was a crash of broken glass and a cheer of victory from the square, presumably as an Angelus was felled to the ground. A moment later, a cheer was cut off with a gurgle as the incapacitated creature spitefully fought for the remainder of its life, and another man wailed in horror at the loss of his friend.

Beneath the bench, Dean’s mouth twisted open in a massive scream that his body didn’t have the voice for. Hands over his ears, his soul twisted within him in unbridled horror and desperation, and his muscles contracted around it to control its exertion.

Cas. No no no no.

The hands that shook him were rough and panicked, and Dean didn’t even bother to respond – scarcely knowing whether they were those of a friend or a foe. Knife to his throat, hand to his cheek. It scarcely mattered at all, in light of the image that branded itself on the backs of his eyelids.

Castiel, dead at his feet. Castiel, a ruined corpse.

“Dean! Dean! Oh my god!”

Jo’s voice cracked as she pulled him from under the bench and slapped at his face, forcing his eyes open and looking into them hurriedly. “Dean, please, you have to get out of here now!”

“Cas,” he mumbled feebly as water was forced between his lips and he was pulled upwards by a pair of delicate hands. Another set caught him as he made to collapse, and together they held him upwards, as he swayed between them.

“There aren’t any other exists to the City. How can we get him out?”

“Through Bobby’s office. The barricade is gone now. We can ride out through there.”

“The square is full!”

“There’s no other option.”

Jo’s hands released him and hurried footsteps ran to the other side of the cottage, pulling at jars and bottles, and causing them to clatter to the floor.

“There’s no time. We need a horse. I’ll ride him out.”

Dean hacked out a line of bile and sagged deeper into the hold of the arms around him. Garth, arms wrapped around Dean’s chest strained under his weight but managed to hold him up.

“I’ll get to the stables, there have to be some somewhere. I’ll steal them if I have to. If I’m not back in five minutes, go on foot.”

Garth moved quickly to deposit Dean in a chair, and rushed back across the floor to his wife.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jo replied, and Dean watched blearily as their lips pressed together quickly. As she pulled away, Jo looked to him once and her jaw set. “Dean, don’t you dare die on us.”

Dean hacked again and leaned forward, spitting out the acid that was still churning in his mouth.

“Take the back path. Up by the tanner’s. If you-“

“Corner of the square,” Dean murmured out quietly. It was a mumble only, but enough to catch the attention of Jo and Garth, as they stood close, clutching one another’s hands tightly.

“What?”

“Stallion. Chestnut. Tethered behind the blacksmith’s. No one would’ve seen him. He’s there.”

“Oh thank God.” Jo leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Garth’s cheek. “Dress him in some armor to hide his face and carry him there on foot. I’ll meet you there on foot. Make sure to hide his face.”

“I will. Be careful.”

Jo said nothing and turned, exiting the cottage in a hurry and running through the streets in bare feet. It occurred to Dean, as he stared feebly after her, that her courtly heels had been thrown in the corner, where they were covered in mud and blood.

Garth rushed to Dean quickly and hastily stripped him of anything thick. Quickly, he pulled his own armor from his chest and slung it around Dean’s shoulders. It was a poor fit, but the leather was flexible enough that it hung on Dean well enough. The helmet was a harder fit, but Garth squeezed it tight on his head without care for any injury it might inflict. Garth quickly replaced his bare chest with Dean’s shirt and braced himself beneath him.

“Dean, I need you to get up on my shoulder and hang across it. Act like you’re dead, and keep your head down. Can you do that?”

Dean mumbled lightly and nodded, gagging once, before he stood and allowed Garth to crouch beneath him, He positioned his stomach over Garth’s bony shoulder and let Garth raise himself slowly, until his feet left the ground and he was fully suspended. The knot of Garth’s bones pressed uncomfortably into Dean’s stomach and he jostled above him. “You need to go limp, Dean, “ Garth whispered hurriedly, before he traipsed across the room. It was something of an effort to get Dean through the door, with his bulk, but Garth managed it and set off at as fast a walk as he could manage under Dean’s bulk around the empty streets surrounding the square.

The City still roared around them, but Dean kept his eyes carefully shut as they were jostled by soldiers. None seemed to note their passing, amidst screams of horror and the clang of metal as men surged against one another, in attempt to avoid the reaching claws of the Angelus. It should have been a foolhardy plan, to lead Dean so obviously through the streets, but none seemed to note his presence at all, although a few men recognized Garth and pleaded for instructions. “Under the wing!” Garth yelled, over and over, as they crowded him and then scattered as another Angelus plunged towards the ground, until he pulled Dean into Bobby’s office and slammed the door shut behind him. The door was ripped to shreds, which explained the fact that there were no men hidden there and the room had clearly been ransacked by a fifth Angelus, for the creature lay dead in the corner – head separated from its body.

Jo followed only a minute later, and stumbled into the room with the stallion resisting her strongly. One of her eyes was red and swollen, and Garth rushed forward to examine it.

“What-“

“Some bastard tried to take the horse from me. When I refused, he hit me.”

Garth growled but Jo pushed past him, dragging the stallion behind her into the absurdly small space. She let Garth take the reins and check his saddle as she rushed forward to Dean and placed both hands on either side of his cheek.

“Dean, Dean, are you with me? You have to go now.”

Dean nodded mutely and stumbled forward to take the reins from Garth, while Jo moved to the door of the wall and fumbled with the lock there. With some aggressive tugging and after a few aborted attempts, the door swung open and Garth slapped the stallion on his hind flanks to push him through. He horse went willingly – happy to escape the contained space and tried to rear once it was on the other side. Garth held firmly onto the reigns, but he was dragged slightly upwards by the force of it. Dean hurried forward, and dumbly pulled down the reigns, forcing the horse into submission.

“The body outside the cottage. Is it-“

Dean nodded mutely, and his knees trembled beneath him, threatening to give way.

“We’ll go back for him, Dean. We’ll give him a proper funeral.”

Dean swallowed around his swollen tongue and stuttered: “h-have to get him out of the City. H-h-he’ll turn.” Garth nodded quickly, although he seemed to understand little of Dean’s intentions. “Of course. I’ll bring him to the forest. I promise.”

He pushed Dean towards the stallion’s stirrups and made a cradle for his foot so that Dean could hoist himself up. Dean fell atop the horse with exhaustion and let his forehead rest against the creature’s mane.

“I-I need to see him. I need to say goodbye.”

Garth nodded quickly and looked to Jo, who was staring back towards the square through the closed door anxiously, clearly having heard a sound that expressed the urgent need for Dean’s departure.

“I’ll meet you at one of the cave sanctuaries, Dean. There’s one, a day from here – right? Meet me there, and I’ll bring him for you, as soon as I can. I promise. You have to go now. You have to go.”

Dean hurled out a sob and hung his head against the mare’s neck. Garth laid his hand on Dean’s leg and squeezed once, before he moved behind the horse and slapped him hard against the flanks. The stallion started at once, rearing high. But then, realizing he was unrestrained, darted forward at an aggressive gallop. Dean tumbled a little atop his back, but managed to grab a handful of his mane to maintain his position in the saddle. He stayed down and low, hoping to hide his bulk against the horse until they were in the safety of the treeline, where he could raise his head and direct the stallion to sanctuary.

However, when the time came, the weight of disbelief stayed heavy on his shoulders, and while the horse thundered beneath him, all he could do was howl into the oily coat and send curses to his Father and himself. Damn it all, every part. For Castiel was dead and his world had ceased to be.


	33. Sleeper, You Must Foil It

** Chapter Thirty Two **

** 2013 **

“It’s not possible.”

Gabriel stared at Castiel across the table, and folded his palms together. “You are seeing his memory, Castiel. You are seeing what he lived.”

Castiel shook his head, gasping in disbelief. “I awoke in the tomb. Lilith tortured me.”

“I know.”

“But-“

“You fell, Castiel, as we all did. A human skewered your throat and cut your windpipe. You died from asphyxiation, while our brothers and sisters tore apart the City. Dean saw your dead body.”

Castiel’s spine shifted forward and sent his jaw forwards to the table, as his mouth opened as though he could vomit. But his Grace had returned, and his body was well. Nothing came, but silent horror.

“I’m alive, now.”

“You are. You rose again, just as we all did, brother. Our Father restored you.”

“But-“

“Not yet, Cas. There’s more to tell. I’m sorry.”

He reached for his third bookmark and pulled the book open. In the echoes of Dean’s memories, Castiel felt every tear shed for him flood his body and drown him in grief. God, Dean. _God, Dean. What have I done to you? What have I done to myself?_

...

** 1425 **

Dean found solace in the first of the sanctuaries that Castiel had erected in the forest. There, he collapsed to the forest floor and wailed his desperate curses against its soils until his throat was hoarse and his body ached too hard to shake any more. His stallion, without tethering, was considerate enough to wait outside the rough hut that Castiel had built, pawing at the dirt, until his new master returned, face set and took to a vigorous gallop as soon as he was mounted again.

 Dean patrolled the forest for hours searching for Sam. He eventually happened upon his trail, and an hour later, and when he caught him he slung him atop the stallion, retrieved all the supplies from the hut that they could carry and rode them in silence for another hour. There, Dean stopped them to let the horse, frothing slightly at the bit, take respite from their weight, and they continued on foot.

Sam detected Dean’s mood, and so said nothing, aside from stating blithely that he had neither come upon Lydia nor Samuel. That was hardly surprising, given Lydia was on horseback and Sam was not. In several hours they had come upon their trail too, and they walked along it, taking turns to dust at footprints or hide marks of their passing with confusing treads in the dirt, in case any should try to follow.

Dean was paranoid, but not for himself. They were following Lydia’s trail, and he intended, when he reached her the child, that shem, Sam and little Samuel should make an escape to a distant city. It would not bode well if they were tracked in that regard.

Castiel’s blade rubbed incessantly at Dean’s ankle as he walked, and it struck him, hours in, that he had not even had the presence of mind to retrieve his amulet from Castiel’s body. The thought struck him first with a vicious anger, during which time he hurled his entire knife stock still at his waist into a nearby tree trunk, and then collapsed sobbing to the forest floor. Sam held him as close as he dared given the previous violent display, but had the sense not to make any assurances. There were none that could be made, and to state anything otherwise was foolishness.

They slept in a second sanctuary further along the route. That is, Sam slept for several fitful hours, while Dean sat outside and stared blankly at the starry sheet of sky above him. It was icy cold in the depths of winter, and snow fell in the course of the evening. Even though it were not advisable, Sam lit a fire and left it to burn beside Dean so he would not freeze, before wrapping himself in the rough furs Castiel had stocked the place with and shivering for a few rough hours, before Dean awoke him callously and insisted they keep moving. Dean yelled when Sam wasn’t quick enough and the silence between them that day following was aggravated and offended.

They reached the cabin on the sixth day – the direction in which Lydia’s path had veered – presumably Balthazar had imparted that knowledge in some time or other. Sam was unable to do anything more for Dean when he balked at the cabin and sat on its steps for two hours before Lydia persuaded him inside. At Dean’s resilience to his pleas, he was relieved to be reunited with this son, and spent the day cradling him in the furs still assembled in the corner of the cabin while Lydia bore the burden of Dean’s fury and grief. She was glad of it too, for the child had wailed incessantly in being parted from his mother and without his usual sustenance – and had refused to eat or sleep for more than a scant few hours since their arrival. His comfort in his Father’s arms was a blessing in the face of Dean’s grimness, and she bore his insults, pleas and screams stoically while the others sheltered inside.

When the time came to sleep, Dean refused to take one of the furs Castiel had left behind and fell asleep shivering. When he awoke, he found himself covered with one in any case and yelled at Lydia for putting it there. She bore it bravely, even though Sam was the party responsible, and failed to redirect the blame. They let Dean leave that morning to hunt for game for their meal, and said nothing more than “thank you” when he returned, ensuring that they ate every small palatable part of the meat that Dean offered and avoiding eye contact for the rest of the evening.

Lydia, for her part, was exhausted. Her belly seemed strained even though it was scarcely swollen and on many occasions she paused in her activities to press a hand to it. Each time, her eyebrows narrowed slightly, and she breathed tightly through pursed lips. Sam was hyper-aware of the episodes, and took to watching her carefully, fetching her a chair and water on each occasion and rubbing her back carefully as she gained control over whatever pain was stirring in her womb.

Still, the child there perservered, no matter how vicious the assault. Lydia, whenever Sam would let her, held Samuel close to her and cooed precious words to him. Without Ruby, there was no milk to offer the child, but Lydia – with extreme effort and coaxing – was able to mash berries into a paste and feed it to him to ward off the worst of starvation. Sam dug up some partially frozen vegetables from Castiel’s vegetable garden, and those ground up well too. Although Dean yelled about that too and the house was painfully silent the ensuing day, and Dean left the room when the child took to the puree.

Sam tried to talk with Dean at every opportunity. Dean brushed him off with equal parts aggravation and desolation, and spent the ensuing hours staring pointlessly at the wall of the cottage. It was not difficult for either Lydia or Sam to guess what had become of Castiel, although the exact circumstances remained unclear, and that became the source of their whispered conversations when they thought they were out of Dean’s earshot.

“Is it that he’s not sure, or...”

“He must have seen something. He’s so certain. And he hasn’t said anything about going back to the City. If he knew Castiel were alive, he would.”

Dean put an end to those doubts when he announced he would be returning to the first cave sanctuary, as per Garth’s instructions, to collect Castiel’s body – whatever kind of stinking, wretched thing it was now, nine days from the day his life had been carved out by a knife in his throat. Dean’s mouth fumbled around the words and for the first time, despair overcame anger, and Sam held him close as he broke down in shaking sobs and recounted Castiel’s broken form as he had lain the streets – disregarded. Sam had tried to suggest that he might accompany Dean, but Dean refused. Not for himself, but for Lydia’s sake, who was patently unwell and ought not to be left to care for Samuel in the interim. It was difficult for Sam to accede to Dean’s demands, but he did so as stoically as possible, hugging his brother and tearing up as he bid him farewell on a sunny winter morning, on the frozen grass in the clearing before Castiel’s cottage.

“If you bring him back here, we can farewell him properly. All of us.”

Dean shook his head slowly, and looked out to the clear pathway beyond the mountains.

“It’s too dangerous for us. I’ll take him up to the mountains, and leave him there in pieces. When I’m back, we can make for another City. Lydia needs a doctor, and we need more supplies.” His voice was deadened as he explained the plan, but Sam took it in with an enthusiastic nod. “I’ll get us ready for when you come back. As soon as you’re ready, Dean, we’ll be ready to go.”

Dean said nothing more before he mounted the stallion – wretched, wrecked thing after their escape from the City – and rode him hard back in the direction of Ardus. The two nights that it took him to arrive were the worst. He was not fool enough to ride through them – it was too cold and too dangerous, even with the Angelus supposedly in hibernation and the silent skies they left behind. He awoke, sweating, both nights, even in the freezing temperature, with Castiel’s phantom touch across his skin and the press of lips on his stomach, his chest, his wrist. “Cas.... Cas.” Dean cried himself to sleep every time he awoke until his eyes felt shrunken with the effort and even the thought of Castiel’s body in the streets did nothing to stir him. He was too exhausted for anything, except to return to him and to send him home.

Garth had left a note for Dean in the hut, advising that he had visited and that Dean had not yet arrived. However, he promised to return every second day until they should meet. There was no mention of Castiel’s body.

Dean waited two days, having clearly missed Garth on the day of his arrival. When he heard the sound of hoofbeats in the clearing, he was out of the hut in a moment, eyes wide and searching atop Garth’s horse, for the sight of a sheeted body.

“Where is he?”

Garth dismounted slowly and made his way to Dean cautiously, as though the walk itself were his funeral march, lip trembling.

“I’m sorry. We went back to get him, but... He was already gone from the streets. Someone took him, or moved him. We searched everywhere. We asked even.”

Dean fell to his knees and his shoulders shook with tears he could no longer generate, and Garth followed into the same position beside him, reaching out and searching for a secure point to hold onto. Dean let Garth cradle him against his shoulder, and eventually lead him back to the hut, quivering, where he wrapped him in a fur and extracted a bottle of strong mead from a satchel at his waist. “Compliments of Jo. She thought you’d need it.”

Dean uncorked and drained half the bottle without a second thought, or even a look to Garth, who appraised him carefully.

“What happened?”

“They’re saying you forced a breach of the City,” Garth explained mutely. “That you were responsible for the deaths of the Empress and Samuel Campbell, and that you seduced Lilith with witchcraft to take the throne.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.”

Garth took a swig of the mead himself, and sighed. “The City was in uproar. Fifty dead, in total, and countless more injured. There was looting too, even in the Palace. There are at least another fifty unaccounted for – we suspect they fled to the forest. A few stragglers returned the next morning.”

Garth cleared his throat and fumbled with his thumbs.

“A-Alastair is going to be installed as leader. There hasn’t been talk of a wedding yet, but... he’s courting her. It’s only a matter of time. They’re saying you didn’t consummate the marriage, and they annulled it.”

Dean grimaced and wrenched the mead from Garth to swig at the rest of it with aggression. Garth seemed perturbed at his enthusiasm for the task, but didn’t attempt to stop him as the bottle emptied, and Dean cast it carelessly to the other side of the hut.

“She’s appointed him Lord Captain of the City in the interim. There’s a warrant for your arrest. I think they’re planning to dispatch hunting parties. But I’m not sure when – Alastair had me removed from Council. Anyone who supported you.”

Dean stiffened and grabbed tight at his thigh – the nearest object in which to contain a flash of unexpected rage and upset. “Lydia and Sam are still in Cas’ hut. Only two days and a little from here.”

Garth’s eyes widened, but his voice was low. “I was afraid of that. You may have to move to the mountains first, rather than seeking for a City. They’ll catch up. At least, there’s a risk of it.”

Dean cradled his head in his hands and sighed, low and aggressive. “Any way you can hold them up?”

Garth shrugged and looked to his immobile hands at his lap: “Days at most. But Alastair has her ear now. He’ll want them out sooner rather than later.”

Dean cursed openly and leaned forward to place his forehead between his legs. “Shit, it’s all over.”

Garth was silent for a moment, but then he shook his head slowly, even though Dean’s eyes were otherwise distracted.

“Not yet. There’s more to fight for. Balthazar, Cas... it’s what they would have wanted.”

“What? The Throne?”

Garth looked to Dean as he raised his head from between his legs and stared wide eyed, before sighing and adjusting, sitting up straight to speak:

“The City. Alastair is the same threat he ever was. With you gone... he’s worse. When he trains the men... it’s vengeful, Dean.”

“What’s he telling them?”

“That we’re to head out to the forest, and annihilate every creature we come across. That we can make the City safe.”

Garth swallowed and ached out his next words: “And... people... people have gone missing.”

“What?”

Garth seemed immediately struck with regret that he had not mentioned the point immediately and hung his head in shame. “Any of your closer captains, a few women who you bedded at one time or another. Jo swears she heard soldiers outside our bedroom one night – she hollered until she woke half the City up. And... Ruby.”

“What?!”

Garth pursed his lips around his answer. “She... she’s not missing exactly. Alastair took her. Arrested her... in front of the whole City. They’re... interrogating her, supposedly, for information about where you got to. They went looking for Sam first thing. And when they didn’t find him...”

Dean’s breath exhaled in fits and starts as his lungs shuddered around the new knowledge. Alastair... perhaps worse than imagined, to take a lady of the court to the tower and hold her there. Dean was unsure of arrest process, but he knew enough as a soldier that suspicion was not enough to hold a party for nearly two weeks. Either they had forced her into a false confession, or they were keeping her without right.  Either option was a cruelty that could not be borne by the City leader.

“F-first thing in spring, I’ve heard, they’re planning on sending out the boys. Small squads first. They’re calling them ‘assasins’. But they’re really just fodder to draw the Angelus out. Alastair’s expecting casualties.”

Dean pounded a fist against the ground and bit his lip. “That’s horse shit! The Angels can’t die.”

Garth balked and stared at him. Dean looked over quickly and murmured: “Shit, you didn’t know.”

Garth shook his head quickly and blinked blearily, knotting his hands together at his lap. “No, I... I always figured Balthazar knew something I didn’t. When I saw... when I saw his body, I suspected there was more to it, but.... that makes it worse...”

It was Garth’s turn to drop his forehead between his knees and breathe harshly for a few moments. However he managed it, and dealt with the news surprisingly before raising his gaze to Dean’s after only a few minutes, voice calm and even.

“We need to do something.”

“Get to Lilith? Show her proof? Whatever we can to stop him. She may be a vapid thing, but she loves the City, I think. If we can show her-“

Garth paused and stared at his feet for a long minute. “They cast out the Angelus bodies. Burned them. C-Cas wasn’t there, I checked. But-“

Dean interrupted him hurriedly, eyes growing wide as he clutched Garth’s arm.

“Balthazar, what did they do with his body?”

Garth stared, uncomprehending. “They buried him as a traitor on the outskirts of the City. They implicated him with you.”

“If we can get to his body, we can show them. He’ll- He’ll be awake now...”

“I... what?”

The color that drained from Garth’s face showed that he knew the answer already, although he was paralyzed with incredulity. “No, no, that’s not-“

“Cas told me. He knew him. They used to fight together on the roads.”

Garth heaved out another aching breath and gasped in a few others. “Oh my God.”

Dean flinched at the word God, and leaned back into the hut, rubbing his thumb over his mouth quickly. More energized than he had been in all the past days combined and multiplied and combined a hundredfold. It wasn’t Cas. It couldn’t be him. But it could be a vindication of his hopes and his values – that humanity could be kept safe and that loss would be minimized.

“What would we do? Would I-“

“I’d go. If it goes wrong, you can’t be implicated. If I take him... the worst is that they get to me.”

Garth shook his head quickly and leaned close to Dean. “Lydia and Sam, they need you to take care of them.”

Dean grimaced and gritted his teeth. “If you go, and something goes wrong... that puts Jo and Ellen in danger. You have a family that you have to take care of, Garth.”

“You do too.”

Dean shook his head again. “Worst case, they keep me. That’s safer for Sam and Lydia anyway. I’m the one they want. They’ll let them go. What use am I to them now anyway? Look at me.” He gestured to his haggard expression carelessly, as though he wore it as a point of pride. “And best case, I save them. I save the City.”

“The same is true for me.”

“No, because if it goes wrong, we’ll both he hunted. You know that. You can’t do that to Jo and Ellen, or to Sam and Lydia. Someone needs to look out for them, and you’re best to do that. Come on, don’t make me beg. Please.”

Garth’s mouth open and shut and he fell silent. “Dean, I can’t let you do this.” There was already a concession in his tone as he adjusted himself in the cramped space of the hut, even though his eyes plead with Dean to abstain from pressing the issue. “You know you can’t stop me,” Dean murmured quietly. He lowered his head again and shut his eyes and thought of Castiel, and the pale blue light of his eyes as he promised his life to Dean. It was all he could do to bear the presence of a body beside him in the hut that night, that was not Castiel’s, in the silence of the forest absent an Angelic chorus for the third night in a row.

...

Garth lead him to the gravesite the next day. He made a cursory trip to the City in the evening and returned just past midnight with two small shovels. Bobby, he explained, believed he was tracking the woods for Dean, and hated him for it. The sacrifice of his good graces was worth it, in the long run, Garth said, although he was clearly somewhat hurt by the Watchman’s disdain.

They dug beneath a small rock upon a pile of freshly heaped dirt, that was that was left to mark Balthazar’s existence. The excavation took hours, and they dug past their shoulders into the dirt before Garth eventually pulled back, frowning. “He should be here, Dean.”

Dean shrugged and rolled his shoulders, shoveling another heap of dirt over his shoulder before wiping a sweating brow. “Six feet down. We’re not there yet.”

Garth shook his head and stared into the pit.

“Not for traitors. It’s a shallow grave. They want them to be unearthed – it’s part of the punishment. It should barely have been a foot down.”

Dean shrugged and continued to heave at the dirt, while Garth stared studiously at the ground, and his lips moved through the process of his thought. At eight feet, Dean conceded with a curse and threw his shovel angrily against the dirt wall. The hold was so deep that Garth had to reach down and heave him out of it, and the effort required to haul Dean up left them both panting on the side of the grave.

“I don’t understand, he should be here.”

“They must have lied, or buried him somewhere else. What other explanation is there?”

Dean shook his head and drank from a waterskin, before passing it to Garth, who drained it mercilessly, before heaving it the ground in frustration, as Dean had with the shovel. “God, Dean, what are we going to do? We need proof!”

He fell backwards onto the hard winter ground and slung his elbow over his eyes, even though the daylight was feeble at best and filtered through heavy grey clouds that hung suspended from the sky.

Dean, silenced, stared at the wintry ground and shook with anger. After everything, they were duped by a false grave. Could he have been forsaken any worse? Whatever Father that were art in Heaven, could be done with him. And with Cas, for all he cared. Clearly, he was. It was all that was left.

“We have to stop them anyway. What else can be done? We can’t let them go out to their deaths.”

Garth accepted the statement with obvious resentment, keeping his elbow over his eyes. “Your determination to die, Dean, it’s foolish. There’s more you can do alive than otherwise, no matter how much you might want to leave us.”

Dean might have responded more aggressively in any other circumstance. Certainly, the point hit too hard as he lay on the frozen ground and thought of Castiel’s equally frozen, rigid body on the streets. But the sound of a snap behind them, in the vicinity of the forest, had him whirling onto his stomach in time with Garth and peering through the trees.

After a few moment’s silence, he crawled quickly to Garth keeping low and obscured by the ridge, and whispered tightly: “Where?”

Garth pointed in the same direction from which Dean had heard the noise, and Dean nodded quickly. Carefully, he raised his hands, to indicate the direction that they should move, when he heard another snap – approaching from the opposite side of the treeline. This time, it was accompanied by the sound of a clink of armor, and Dean’s eyes widened. He shuffled close to Garth, leaning down and pulling at his sword at his waist. “We need to split. You go back to the City, I’ll head for the forest.”

Garth’s mouth opened, but shut again when a careful silence descended across the forest. A building tension that marked – in both their intuitive knowledges of controlled assaults – that attack was near. “Go. Now. You never saw me. Get to the city and find out what happened to the body.”

Garth’s eyes were full, but held back from brimming, as he slid away through the grass. His small stature finally useful in his line of work, he seemed to barely disturb his surroundings as he made to slither away through the frozen grass. Once he hit a ridge of land, Dean lost sight of him, and whether he stayed or moved on, Dean was unable to tell where. He had little such luxury himself, but made the attempt regardless, sliding slowly around the mound of dirt they had compiled and pulling himself into a crouch. From the left, he heard a small whisper, and knew it was enough. With a start, he stood and made to run along the treeline. There was a shout behind him, and the sound of a man giving the order. Behind him, the forest erupted with ten or so soldiers, teeming from it with swords raised. Dean spared only a small look, before turning and powering forwards as fast as he could manage – knowing that outstripping them (and locating his stallion in the woods) was his only opportunity for escape. Unarmored, he had the advantage of speed – the men who followed him wore heavier metal upon their chests and bore it poorly, possessing none of his agility as he quickly darted between the trees. He had the advantage too, of being the matter that gave chase, rather than the pursuer, and he determined the route as best he could to take advantage of his better capacity for movement – through denser parts of the forest, where better twisting was required.

The men behind him were resilient though and pursued him, catcalling and jeering, even as he made way from them. “Traitor! Scoundrel! For the Princess!”

At first the calls seemed harmless, and Dean sprinted further ahead, looping slowly back around to where he knew his stallion was kept, preparing his weapons at his waist for a quick mount. As he came closer to the site, however, he realized that they held a far more sinister purpose. An additional squadron of men, clearly held back from the initial pursuit, used them as a method of determining his whereabouts – they had moved around the treeline and awaited him.

He was being herded.

He cut to his right immediately, and made away from his stallion. The beast could already have been incapacitated or removed for all he knew – it would be what a sensible soldier would do, and he knew his men were well-trained enough in that regard to have considered the option. The only opportunity then was to outstrip, or hide. Neither, in the face of the strategy confronting him – perhaps one against twenty – seemed to yield any likely success.

Still, he surged on, determination that he would not undo Castiel’s sacrifice by giving up so readily pushing him further, even as his lungs (so well-trained) began to ache with the exertion and his legs felt drained of energy.

In the end, he was not embarrassed for his failing to act as best he could. The sound of hoofbeats meant his escape was over, and within a minute he had been felled and dragged across the forest floor. The ground scraped at his skin and loose rocks tore imperfections in it, so that by the time his assailant drew to a halt, he was truly incapacitated from a further attempt to run, by stinging wounds torn open in his exposed flesh, and aching joints where he had fallen upon rocks and roots.

Atop the stallion that had caught him, Alastair sneered and raised his sword, before dismounting and placing a foot on Dean’s chest. “Well, traitor, it seems you are to be brought to justice.”

...

Dean was manacled heavily and forced to walk behind Alastair’s stallion as he was taken back to the City. They stripped him of all his weapons, including Castiel’s blade, which Alastair twirled before his eyes, before croaking with a grin: “Pretty thing. I think I’ll keep it.” Dean hissed but didn’t respond, only swearing internally that he would retrieve the blade before all was done. Whatever hand it would fall into, in the event of his death, that it would not be Alastair’s. He didn’t deserve it.

The square was empty upon his arrival, but the cheers of Alastair’s men for having obtained him soon attracted the attention of the citizens. By the time he had reached the Palace, the streets were lined with jeering peasants and nobility alike. Dean kept his head down and his ears shut to the betrayal of his citizens as they cursed him for the slight he had not committed. At least, not with ill will.

The men peeled off to a small guard for his escort to the dungeons beneath the Palace. A group of three men accompanied him, plus Alastair, and they left their weapons at their waist, placated by his subdued exterior and wrecked appearance. When they reached the tomb, Alastair pushed him inside roughly and shut the door, murmuring a few instructions to his men, who quickly departed, clapping one another on the back and declaring that they would make for the Brown Bear to celebrate their catch. Alastair paused while he waited for the sound of their footsteps up the stairs to disappear, before he turned and looked through the small barred window to Dean.

“Sorry about the smell. Though, I suppose it suits you. Shit returning to where it belongs.” He clicked his tongue and spat through the bars, before meeting Dean’s eyes and smiling his strangely crooked smile.

Dean advanced quickly to the grate, and stared through, growling: “whatever they’re saying, they’re wrong. I’ve only ever served the City.”

Alastair chortled and stared back through the grate. “Wrong. You’ve kept the City prisoner. You’ve kept our Princess prisoner. Joke’s on you now, Dean.”

“I’ve kept the City safe! You know what’s out there!”

Alastair bared his teeth through the bars of the cage and cackled. “I do. And I plan to kill it.”

Dean stared at him momentarily before whispering, voice earnest and heart pleading: “Alastair, you can’t.”

Alastair narrowed his eyes and pulled away from Dean, extracting Castiel’s blade from his belt, and twirling the tip so that it was visible through the grate. “See, that was your problem. Can’t. _Won’t_. Principle. Or, a better word for it, _cowardice_.”

His upper lip twitched and he met Dean’s eyes with a deadened expression. “You can hang like a coward too, Dean. You can cry for your City then. I promise you, it won’t cry for you.”

He sneered once and took his leave, checking the lock on the door quickly as he exited in a sweep around the outside dungeon, eyes on Dean the entire time. “I’ll see you at the gallows, _Slayer_.”

...

Dean was scarcely in the cell for an hour before a group of guards attended to him and chained him to the wall, in heavy manacles that had the mercy of letting him move about slightly – around one meter away from the wall in total before he felt the restraint. They were old and rusted, but firm enough and they held true, even when he located a sharp stone on the ground and attempted to pick into them. Castiel’s blade, with its ferociously pointed tip might have been enough to inflict the requisite damage – but alas, it was with Alastair and would likely never be returned. At least, without a fight.

There was an offness to the circumstance that made Dean restless in the chains, and he sat with thrumming, jittering legs, each bounce rattling them and sending echoes of irritation throughout the cell.

It did not surprise him that Alastair appeared disgusted with him – if his betrayal was the tale that had been spun, then it was only sensible that a protector of the City ought to be affronted by it. And, to all intents and purposes, Dean _had_ betrayed the City. No one could have known that Cas was different, and, as carved out as his heart was at the memory of his lover lying lifeless on the ground, it was difficult to blame the citizens for being afraid, and acting rashly. Not that he could ever forgive them, in any event. And in bringing in Cas, he’d been foolish enough to leave the sigils unfinished. Three Angelus had entered the City. They’d killed many and they’d caused trauma.

It made sense that Alastair would recoil from him.

But there was a kind of expectation in Alastair’s temperament that made Dean suspicious that more was yet to be revealed. Had their positions been reversed, he might have been more devastated at his brother-in-arms’ betrayal. But Alastair was calm and triumphant. And seemingly _bloodthirsty_.

There was only one way for the entire circumstance to end. Dean knew that. Barring his fortuitous escape. But if Balthazar had been implicated in his “siege” to the City, he did not doubt that Bobby and Garth were at least under suspicion. Jo would struggle to find a reasonable excuse to make her way to the tombs, and Ruby was detained – where, he did not know in any event. If he awaited rescue, it would not come. Unless, of course, it took the form of deliverance from the wretched circumstance that was outliving Cas.

In empty silence and so restrained, there was little Dean could do other than cry. The frustration of it all burned acutely, second only to the ravaging guilt that had Dean’s soul seemingly recoiling from itself inside him. It made him feel like he was bursting at the seams, so desperate was it to escape his foul act.

He’d lead Cas to sacrifice. He’d allowed him to act brashly and failed to follow him to help him meet his death. Cas had died in carnage and suffering – that which he had reviled most – most likely believing that Dean had chosen his brother in the end. That the human, rather than the Angel, had been the betrayer.

Wherever Cas was, Dean knew he wouldn’t hear. His Grace was exterminated, and he was either  animal or between that and humanity. But still, Dean choked out a tearful apology to the blank space before him and washed the cold tiles beneath him with his grief.

“Cas... I’m so sorry. I never wanted... I didn’t mean for you to-“

Whatever he had meant, it scarcely mattered in whatever Castiel had understood it to mean. Just as Balthazar had betrayed Lydia, Dean had betrayed Cas. The only Angel who’d been pure to his Father’s words. The one who deserved far greater praise than Dean had afforded him. To be loved by more than a miserable specimen of humanity that would let him die with a scalpel to his throat.

It wouldn’t surprise Dean, good as Cas was, if he’d used his dying gurgle to curse him. To curse the fact that Dean had proven the other Angels right about humanity.

It wasn’t that he regretted saving Sam. Of course he hadn’t. Whatever had possessed Ruby to send her child into the forest on a winter night was enough to determine comprehensively that Sam was in danger too. But it was too much to bear that it had to have been Cas to save him. It had all been done the moment Dean’s men had appeared on the ramparts and come after him without explanation. There was no reason that he ought to have lived over Cas. Except that he had, because Castiel’s heart had been too full and he had been too weak.

“Crying like the coward you are?”

Alastair peered through the bars of the cell and gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile, haunted by something unexplained. Dean’s nose wrinkled as his upper lip twitched in resentment, and he hurriedly brought his manacled wrists to his face and smudged away the traces of tears that still hung on the skin.

Alastair snickered before his gaze descended to the door and, with a rattle, he pushed a key into the lock. Dean stiffened across the room, but his gaze flickered up in curiosity to watch as Alastair brazenly entered, scarcely bothering to check Dean was properly restrained. He closed the door behind him and tutted once, crossing his arms across his chest and murmuring: “pathetic”, before he crossed the room quickly and wrenched Dean up by his shirt.

“Stand up, shit.”

Dean obliged silently, meeting Alastair’s gaze with a silent challenge for explanation. But none was received, and Alastair merely clicked him tongue and returned to the doorway, looking outwards and murmuring something. He nodded quickly and then turned to Dean, grunting with the exertion of wrenching open the door.

Dean stood ramrod straight as footsteps marked the entry of a new party to his tomb. But at the first brush of a skirt beyond the doorway, he quickly dropped his head and didn’t look up again until he heard the trill of Lilith’s greeting.

“Well, Dean. You have got yourself into a mess.”

...

** 2013 **

Gabriel shut the book tenderly, but kept his finger anchored in the page to mark their spot. Castiel withdrew from the vision with a gasp, and his eyes quickly flickered to the place where Gabriel had marked the spot.

“Why-“

“Brother, by way of explanation... if there is one. We didn’t know.”

“You said that already.”

Gabriel pursed his lips, his usually bright face serious and pained as it twisted around restraint. “I know. And I regret it.”

Without further ceremony he reopened the book and the universe reassembled around them.

** 1425 **

Dean kept his gaze down until Lilith advanced forward, voice sweet, as though they were yet before their wedding and Dean were not manacled before her. She carried on the pretension smoothly as she made her way closer to him, raising a hand to his chin and raising his eyes to meet hers. There was a grin on her face, but her eyes were cold when he met them, and he only looked for a moment before looking past her to where Alastair tracked the movement of her hand carefully.

“My almost husband. If only you had been loyal to me.”

Dean swallowed and pulled his chin out of her grip, pursing his lips and meeting her eyes squarely, managing this time only another few seconds before the intensity there sent them careering in another direction. “I was loyal to you, and the City.”

“You brought a creature into our midst.”

“Cas wasn’t a creature.”

“Hm.”

She arched an eyebrow and ran a tongue along her lips, before pronouncing blithely: “word is, you fucked it too.”

The manacles at his wrist rattled as Dean’s body reacted before his mind could ensnare it, and he started forward quickly – caught between pleading and anger.

“I was helping the City. Balthazar. He would have turned animal. He was Angelus. He would have laid siege and killed people.”

Lilith’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms before him, stepping back carefully out of his reach.

“My citizens are dead. On your watch. Sixty at last count.”

Dean swallowed gingerly again and looked to Alastair, who met his gaze with a cool stare.

“Look, Lilith, I-“

“Your Highness,” she corrected lightly, as though they were still courting and it was a tender chastisement. Dean blinked quickly at her, and flushed, partly in anger and part in frustration, before he continued, voice low and careful.

“Your Highness. Do what you want with me. I know how this looks, but...” his eyes raised to Alastair’s and his fists tensed around the chains at his wrist as he held them, “please, don’t listen to Alastair. They can’t die. You’ll just aggravate them. They’ll breach the walls again and they’ll kill more. If you let them be, you can-“

“Hush.”

Lilith stepped forward quickly and placed a finger to Dean’s lips, sweetly, before trailing it down his chin and leaning in as though she meant to kiss him.

“Dean, I believe you.”

“What?”

Her statement was unexpected, and despite his still disgust at her touch, Dean froze with her finger against him, and met her eyes with honesty.

She smiled lightly, and traced the outline of his lips with her fingers, before she withdrew.

“I believe, at least, that you believe you are telling the truth. Alastair assures me you do not, but...”

She stepped backwards and sashayed to the centre of the room, slowly as though she expected Dean’s eyes to follow her. They did, but with incredulity rather than desire. In between them, she paused, and turned back contemplatively to Dean, meeting Alastair’s eyes on the way.

“How ought I to choose? When you both present so well?”

Even Alastair seemed startled by her blithe ignorance of the tension in the situation, and he stepped forward once, uncertainly, mouth opening: “my beloved-“

Lilith’s eyes flashed and she whirled on Alastair, teeth bared and shining even in the dim light of the tomb. “Be careful how you address me, Slayer!”

Alastair nodded carefully and stepped back at once, eyes downcast and hands hung demurely in front of him, but angled towards the hilt of his sword at his waist.

Lilith composed herself quickly and reached to her hair, pulling out a small jeweled piece that perched there and held it out to Dean.

“You gave this to me. Do you remember? As a symbol of your loyalty.”

She raised it and admired it before walking forwards and sliding it into the bristles of Dean’s hair, before tracing her hand down his cheek. “Yes, lovely.”

Her hand moved down his neck and to his chest, resting over his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You were so sweet, so earnest. Our kisses, Dean. Such lovely kisses. I cannot believe that you have deceived me. That your words of love were corrupted. They were so sincere.”

Her face was forlorn as she withdrew, and walked to Alastair, eyes wide and simple.

“But yet Alastair has sworn his heart to me too. He has defended me from many foes, and been loyal to me since I was a child. And he swears he can deliver my City.”

She reached out and took Alastair’s hand, cradling it in hers and tracing letters into his skin. He sighed and closed his eyes, exhaling softly, and his expression suddenly turning tender and longing. Out of his vision, a temporary kind of hatred seemed to flicker across Lilith’s face, and she turned to Dean, simpering.

“How do I choose? How do I know who to believe?”

Alastair almost went after her for a moment as she made her way to the centre of the room, but through the better of it before his foot fell on the tiles, and he regained his balance quickly, gaze shifting to Dean and narrowing once more.

Lilith shrugged her shoulders and stared at Dean plaintively, before murmuring. “One of you betrays me and fails to love me. But I know not which.”

She lowered her gaze for a moment, and twisted her head in a childish kind of expression of sadness, puckering her lips into a frown and blinking quickly. No true emotion seemed to follow through though, and when her eyes rose, they were still cold and almost unseeing.

“I have faith in a higher power. That which imbued my mother and I with the powers we have to protect the City. I have faith that he will see me through.”

She breathed slowly, and closed her eyes, humming around a collection of unspoken words before bringing her hands to her chest and pressing her palms flat together. The strange prayer seemed to go for a minute or more before she opened her eyes slowly, and met Dean’s.

“I trust that he will not lead me astray.”

She turned to Alastair, grinning, and indicated to his belt.

“You must unshackle Dean. And give him a sword.”

Alastair started for a moment, but one flash of Lilith’s eyes was enough for him to quickly revise his position, and fumble at his belt for the keys to Dean’s manacles. Quickly, and without meeting Dean’s eyes, he unlaced the metal, warmed by Dean’s proximity and let it drop noisily to the floor. He drew his own sword, and held it out to Dean, without meeting his eyes. Dean stared at it, and then looked to Lilith – eyes questioning.

Her mouth twitched around a smile, like she was a moment away from revealing a delightful surprise. “Go on, take it.”

Dean took it slowly, by the hilt, and let the tip trace the floor as it fell uncomfortably in his grip. Too light. There was no weight behind it.

Lilith arched an eyebrow at Alastair, when he looked to her, as though he were missing something obvious. “You’ll need one too. Get.”

Alastair hurried quickly from the room. In the time he was absent, Dean stared at Lilith, who volunteered nothing more than a blank smile and twisted her hands excitedly before her. When Alastair returned, he had Dean’s own sword – Devil’s Trap – in his hand, and held it as awkwardly as Dean held his. With a nervous glance, they both mutually and independently reached the same conclusion, and held the swords out awkwardly to swap. Lilith grinned as they parted and raised her joined hands to her mouth.

“Now, en garde!”

“What?”

Alastair raised his sword into stance, but Dean left his hanging at his side uselessly, staring at Lilith with the confusion that befitted her strange demand.

Lilith rolled her eyes and looked at Alastair, who met her gaze evenly.

“The Lord will make the decision. Whichever of your fells the other, I shall have my victor.”

“Wait-“

Dean had no chance to react before Alastair raised his sword and charged, and scarcely managed to parry the attack as it fell heavily onto his blade. As it was, the ring of it ran through his bones and made his shoulder jar, as Alastair whirled and raised his blade again for another attack.

“Alastair!”

Alastair ignored Dean as he swung into another movement, swiping to Dean’s side and making to cut through the weak flesh above his hip. Dean danced away, blessed to be garbed with nothing more than a shirt, where armor might have had him too slow to escape the blow.

When Alastair charged again, Dean acted instinctively, sliding closer to the sword, rather than away from it, and crowding Alastair’s space, before throwing a fist to his face and knocking him down. The blow, in the face of a fight with blades, was unexpected, and it struck Alastair with enough shock that Dean had time to meet it with a second. That connected with the side of Alastair’s head and sent him falling to the ground, face first.

Dean stumbled back carefully, and looked to Lilith. “I felled him.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, and on his knees and looking away from Dean, Alastair felt at his mouth. When he turned, and appraised Dean with his sword, a thin line of blood trickled from its edge and his teeth where stained with its hint throughout his saliva. Alastair gargled at Dean with a hacking laugh, before raising slowly and leisurely to his feet.

“That was very nice. Very smooth. You _are_ well-trained.”

He moved to raise his sword back into stance, but Dean brandished his minutely. “Alastair, this is madness. I don’t want to fight you.”

 “Oh, Dean,” Alastair curdled,  spitting a sloppy train of spittle and blood to the floor, before sidestepping Dean’s light parry and raising his sword properly. “You know I always loved our bouts in training. You think I’d pass that up now?”

Dean moved forward to strike, but Alastair was quick and knew his style. He brought his sword up in time to parry the attack, before curling it around Dean’s weapon and wrenching it down. The twist was rough, and Dean was lucky to escape with an intact wrist. He let his grip loosen and let the hilt spin in his hand as Alastair brought the blade down, tightening his grip when the movement was over. The sword faced the wrong way in his hand as he pulled it from beneath Alastair’s and brought it up to counter the next attack, and the discomfort showed a little in the speed of his movement – the tip of Alastair’s sword narrowly missing his cheek.

Alastair gritted his teeth as he swung his sword in a wide arm, aiming to slice through Dean’s belly. Dean twisted his body away at the last second, momentarily unbalancing himself as he sent his core backwards to avoid the draw of the blade. Alastair, anticipating that, swung upwards at the last moment, and managed to leave a small surface wound to Dean’s shoulder. There was a hint of pain, and a decent amount of blood, that quickly soaked through Dean’s shirt. Behind him, Dean heard Lilith gasp, yet she said nothing, and Alastair advanced again, not taking his eyes from Dean.

The bout was vicious, but choreographed in a way through the long years in which they had faced one another for training. Both knew their opponent, even his attempts to be unexpected, and it was difficult to extract any kind of crucial blow upon the other, even as they both began to sweat and pant, and took longer between each attack. Worse was the fact that Alastair took attempts at death blows, while Dean fought defensively, anxiously searching for any opportunity to knock Alastair down again and have Lilith bring an end to the scene. Or at least, to have Alastair side with him, and refuse the battle.

Alastair seemed possessed of no such reason though. As the fight became labored, he took the opportunity to taunt Dean in between each bout, searching for a point of aggravation to exploit.

“I always knew you would be a weak leader, Dean. If it weren’t for those lips of yours, she’d never have looked at you.”

Lilith stayed silent, neither to accept or disprove the statement as Dean struck out for Alastair’s forehead with the butt of his sword and missed narrowly.

“Heh.” Alastair was curiously undaunted by his near escape, merely turning to Dean and nodding: “Very nice,” before launching forward again and managing to strike Dean with a fist to the side of his ear.

“Distracted by everything, weren’t you? Fucking, feasting, all of it. So feebly _human_.”

Dean managed to kick at one of Alastair’s knees and send him careering, but Alastair was quick, and he rolled himself out of the way of a strike, rising on the opposite side of the room to Dean and eyeballing him.

“You’re pitiful.”

Dean sidestepped a blow and pushed forward, smacking Alastair in the eye with his elbow. Alastair grimaced and pulled away, clutching at the area and shaking his head to dispel the pain. In the moment, Dean looked at him earnestly – with regret of a man forced to strike his brother-in-arms – and his sword lowered minutely.

“Alastair, I don’t want to harm you, I-“

“ _Auuuurrrgh_ ”

Alastair rushed forward with a battle cry, as though he could run Dean through and made a side cut as he passed, drawing another flesh wound from Dean’s thigh. The muscle shuddered once, and Dean lost a little height as he crouched to adjust to it, but blocked the third strike from Alastair that had intended to finish him across his neck – the decapitating blow. He spun away from Alastair as he advanced again, and parried his attack, before using the same movement that Alastair had used on him in the first strike to force Alastair’s sword to the ground and the blade to twist in his hand.

Alastair was not quick enough to adjust his grip, and the hilt fell. He made to grab it, but Dean pushed past him faster and kicked it away from him, pointing the tip of his sword to his throat.

“Please. I don’t want to hurt you, brother.”

“ _I’m not your brother, you pathetic wretch!_ ” Alastair’s cry was shrill, so high and screaming that Dean almost made to block his ears, and across from him Alastair cackled. “Go on then. You wanted the leadership, this is how you do it.”

Dean looked to Lilith, who stared blankly at the scene, as if she were watching an uninteresting piece of theatre. When he moved his lips minutely, pleading with her, she smacked her lips and shuffled on her feet, ignoring him.

In his momentary distraction, Alastair grabbed his blade and pressed the tip to his throat. The blade was sharp, and it cut a clean red line across Alastair’s palm, which he held up to Dean, grinning, before he licked across it and stuck his reddened tongue out at Dean.

“Mmmmm. Get on with it.”

Dean faltered for a moment, and in his aggravation, Alastair’s eyes narrowed and he raised a hand, snapping his fingers once. “Fine then.” Without ceremony, he whacked Dean’s sword away, half slicing through his own hand, before raising a knife sourced by his free hand and slashing forward at Dean’s throat. In the shock, Dean raised his sword and slid it across Alastair’s chest. Alastair’s mouth, twisted open in a manic smile, gaped as a rush of blood flooded from his chest and his knees gave way beneath him.

Behind him, Lilith let out a raucous laugh, and Dean fell forwards, clutching at the wound.

“Shit, Alastair. No.”

Alastair groaned and twisted away from him, hacking a ruined cough. A few speckles of blood followed the force of the expulsion, and some hit Dean’s hand as he reached for his brother-in-arms.

“Lilith, please!”

Alastair didn’t even look up at Lilith as he gasped around the wound, before keeling backwards and staring at the ceiling – muscles in his chest convulsing as the wound began to do its work.

Despite the mortality of it, as Dean reached for him again, he batted him away with sharp-nailed hands and moaned.

“Finish him, Dean.”

Dean whirled and stared at Lilith as she gazed upon the scene blandly. At her side, one of her fingers fiddled idly with the skin around her nail.

“No! Please, he needs-“

“You have your instructions.” She cut across him, aggravated, and moved forwards, staring down at Alastair as his chest heaved in labored breaths around the swelling skin and his eyes dulled with the blood that poured from the wound and drenched his shirt. His eyes followed her movement as she looked down at him, and his mouth opened and closed in voiceless pleas. Lilith’s brow furrowed and she looked back to Dean, and the sword still in his hands, now stained with Alastair’s blood.

“You said you loved me, Dean. If you loved me, you’d do this.”

Dean dropped his sword in horror, and perhaps in the burst of defiance that followed his statement.

“No.”

Lilith’s eyes flashed, and she stared at Dean sternly: “He killed Balthazar.”

Dean’s heart paused for a moment, before he turned back to Alastair who grinned around his wheezes. “Shit... deserved... it.”

Dean leaned over quickly, meeting Alastair’s fast closing eyes and mouth curling open in horror: “Alastair, he was our brother!”

Alastair gargled around a laugh and bubbles of blood rose in his throat. His teeth where bright red, and stinking as he huffed a breath in Dean’s face.

“He... was... following me... around the forest.... _aaaaaah_.... trying to... stop me...”

Lilith giggled brightly, and looked to Dean enthusiastically. “You see? He confesses! Finish him.”

Dean pulled back from Alastair, blood racing through his veins, and met Lilith’s eyes again.

“No.”

There was a bated silence in which Alastair began to shiver and convulse on the ground beside Dean, and he reached with a shaking hand across his chest as though to force the wound away from him. Above him, Lilith stared at Dean, face blank and murmured softly: “you said you loved me.”

Dean shook his head silently, but he didn’t validate the statement with an answer. Nonetheless, Lilith’s eyes flashed again, and for a moment, Dean swore he saw them change color.

“If you loved me, you would kill for me. If you loved the City, you would kill for it.”

Dean shook his head again, and stood slowly, dragging his sword with him and letting the tip trail across the cobbles and ring through the tomb.

“I protect the City.”

Lilith hissed and stepped forward, baring her teeth in Dean’s face as she let her tongue flick out and trace the tip of her incisor.

“You will kill for me.”

Dean stared into her eyes, and felt a sudden magnetic pull in his heart that had his fist clenching around the hilt of his sword, and his feet aching to turn and face Alastair. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the tip of his sword piercing the soft flesh of Alastair’s neck in just the right place, so that his blood erupted as a fountain and splattered the room, running rivulets in the gaps between the cobbles and squelching beneath his feet.

Then, Alastair’s face turned to Castiel’s, and Dean watched the blood erupt from that place and stain the perfect, suntanned skin with its vicious color, and wet it, until Castiel was all but obscured beneath it and only his bright blue eyes remained – lifeless and unseeing.

With a tremor, the hilt fell from his hand and hit the floor of the tomb, and Lilith snarled.

Behind him, Alastair fumbled at his waist, and drew another blade. With a wet whisper, and before Dean could turn to see him, he proclaimed: “I kill for you my Princess.”

In a second, he cut through the air, and Dean whirled in time to see Alastair’s chest heave and his eyes die. With a stutter his held fell backwards and hit the floor with a crack, and his hands fell from where they had been clenched around a dagger, buried in his chest.

Lilith snorted as she stepped forward crossing her arms and staring down at the body. The hem of her white gown dragged across the floor and drew up the blood that flowed from Alastair’s chest, the color slowly rising up her legs. With a wry smile, she turned to Dean and met his eyes evenly, smile broad and dazzling: “Finally. I was beginning to think I’d never be rid of him.”

 


	34. Sleeper, You Must Face It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can scarcely believe it, but this will be the second-to-last chapter of this story. Next week will be the final chapter, plus a short epilogue and this 'verse will be complete. While I will save the thanks until completion, I must say I am indebted to you all for your kind attentions to this story. They have meant the world to me.
> 
> This is merely the beginning of my works, if you are saddened by the end of this. I am currently running myself ragged attempting to complete my draft for the DeanCas Big Bang - based off the tv series "Afterlife" in which Dean is a medium, and Castiel is a sceptic psychology professor who makes a study of him, only to find his staunch faith in faithlessness shaken. It's an incredible show and I hope the work does justice to it. I also have other fantastical stories planned, which I am already itching to write. I hope those works will attract the same level of support as I have received here, as I have been utterly overwhelmed and incredibly thankful for all of it.
> 
> Until next week  
> xx

** Chapter Thirty Three **

** 1425 **

Dean fell to the floor and heaved over Alastair’s body. There was little in his stomach to empty – he’d scarcely fed. But bile and mucus fell over Alastair’s remains before Dean could angle himself away in time, and Lilith laughed raucously.

“Honestly, Dean. You have the stomach of a bitch.”

She continued to giggle as he wiped his mouth and heaved a few dry coughs, and remained trembling beside his fallen brother-in-arms. The man he had served with for years on the Road. And had not known at all.

Lilith’s laughter died as soon as it had begun, and her voice turned venomous.

“Get up.”

Dean disobeyed, letting his hand drop to Alastair’s lifeless body and squeezing. The corpse was warm, but still. The blood had ceased to thrum in his veins, and muscles were frozen. Dead, unequivocally and unbelievably.

Lilith’s patience faltered almost instantaneously, and she repeated the order viciously: “ _Get up_ ”

This time, Dean had no choice but to obey, for his legs moved of their own accord and raised him slowly from the ground, turning him towards Lilith and raising his chin to meet her eyes.

“That’s better,” Lilith said, advancing slowly and uncrossing her arms, grinning at Dean as though he had won a joust and dedicated it to her. He stayed ramrod still as she leaned forward and pecked his lips, before pursing them and spitting to the ground.

“God, you taste like _him_. It’s foul.”

She ran a thumb across the edge of her mouth in disgust, before stepping backwards and looking at Dean. Her mouth twitched as she appraised his stained shirt, and she grinned widely as she murmured: “blood does look good on you though. You’ll make a fine prize, I think.”

“What... are you doing?”

Dean’s jaw refused to work around the words, and he gritted them out from a small gap in his teeth as Lilith raised her eyes to his and chortled.

She simpered, and smiled wider: “Creating a new world order. Starting with you.”

She lowered her gaze to Alastair’s body and stared for a moment. There was a soft click, almost like a wet blink, and then she looked back to Dean. Only something had changed, and it struck Dean’s gut. Her eyes – mildly grey and blank in a still smiling face that was seemingly unaware of its change.

“You like?”

She caught a strand of her hair in her fingers and twirled it.

When Dean didn’t answer, her expression dropped, and a moment later, his mouth formed around the word “yes”. A second later, the force of the invisible hold was gone, and he dropped to his knees, gasping.

“I’m glad, Dean. I did so hope you would like it. After all, we’ll be spending a lot of time together from now on.”

Dean gasped a few more times around the air in the room, now swollen with some putrid scent, before he had the courage to look back to Lilith, whose eyes flickered and returned to their normal shade. She blinked a few times as though adjusting, before lowering herself to her knees and placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Tell me, Dean. Your lover, did he ever speak to you of Lucifer?”

Dean failed to answer, more out of horror than anything else, but when Lilith’s grip around his arm tightened, he stumbled out: “yes. Yes, he did.”

Lilith grinned and released him, straightening again.

“Really? What did he say?”

Dean swallowed and stared at the spots of blood on Lilith’s dress where her knees had pressed into the ground as he answered: “That... that he had been an Angel. And God cast him out. Because... because he failed to love humanity.”

“Hm, anything else?”

Dean shook his head slowly and Lilith grinned.

“Well, whatever else I might I have to say of that atrocity, at least he knew better than to speak ill of Lucifer. Perhaps not such a fool after all.”

She brought her hand back to her loose blonde hair and twirled it lightly, staring at Dean curiously.

“Tell me, Dean. What do you think of Lucifer’s punishment? Do you think it was fair?”

Dean swallowed again quickly and stared at the ground.

“I-I don’t know.”

A sharp force struck him across the face, even as Lilith remained frozen before him, and he fell backwards. As he scrambled up, she met him dead in the eyes, and he froze beneath her, still trembling from seeing Alastair felled.

“Insolent. Of course it was not.”

She walked over to Alastair and kicked his dead body. Even a corpse, the force of the kick caused some air to push up through his chest and out of his mouth, and the body gave a kind of dying sigh as she forced it over, and face down in its own blood.

“You feeble humans. You were all so pathetic. How was he supposed to love you? What did you ever do to deserve him?”

She advanced on Dean, eyes wide.

“Fucking, feasting, _defecating_ everywhere. You were nothing but a waste of space. And when he spoke _reason_ , he was cast out! What kind of crime justified his punishment? He spoke the _truth_!”

She stopped before him, panting hard.

“It was his fools of brothers and sisters that deserved punishment for following so blindly. For allowing him his folly. If they had stood up for him, this place would have been destroyed. Your kind never would have been allowed to live for so long.”

Her lip curled.

“I have to admit, we were foolish at first. Hunting down those brothers and sisters. Twisting them and playing with them until they became what you see now. Turning their Grace against them in their last moments, just by whispering in their ears. Turning them animal. So they could be like that which they purported to love.”

Her shoulder twitched and she sauntered to the edge of the tomb, running a hand up and down its damp walls before turning back to Dean.

“But what a waste, when the true game was much easier. The true culprits were your kind. You deserve punishment. They were misguided, but you were misconstructed from the start!”

She sneered as she leaned back against the wall, and another gratuitous hit struck Dean across the face. He fell backwards again, and this time a thin trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth where he’d bitten his cheek with the force of the blow. When he righted himself, Lilith was still unmoving, and staring at him.

“And so, we hatched a plan, you see. That we would take his precious little sons and daughters, and turn them animal too. Break open their natures and let them run riot. Show him what a mistake he’d made. That’s where you come in, Dean.”

She pushed off the wall and commenced walking around the tomb, staring at him in silence. More blood gathered in her skirt and moved up her dress – higher than Dean could have expected, as though she were pulling it up there with her mind and decorating herself with it.

“What... what are you?”

She laughed, bright and loud, and paused before Dean, grinning.

“Why – I’m _you_ Dean. At least, I’m what you could become.”

Her eyes flashed white again for a few moments, and she smiled sweetly. Slowly, she dropped down before him and reached forward to cradle his cheeks in her hands.

“You know, I was once _just like you_. So feebly human. Selfish. Cruel. Destructive.”

She shrugged idly, and traced a tender touch around his lips.

“Then he found me, and took me for his own. I was with him for years, and I gave myself to him. He remade me, in _his image_. And now I am glorious, as he is.”

She laughed lightly and leaned forward to kiss his lips softly, before murmuring. “Now I am the true perfect creation. And I am his messenger. I will bring his gospel to all your kind.”

She leaned forward to kiss him again, and this time let her tongue trace the sheen of his lips. Dean mumbled in protest, but stayed still, wary of the force of the sightless blow being returned. When his lack of response tired her, she pulled backwards.

“It’ll be better when you don’t taste like that wretch. So much better. Oh Dean, I’ll fuck you so hard you forget all about him, I promise you.”

Dean stiffened and stumbled backwards, crawling like a spider on his hands until he backed up against the wall of the cell. Lilith laughed and let him go, biting her lip saucily as she watched him. Even as he moved away, her eyes ravaged his form, and a fresh burst of bile rose in his throat.

“How... how do you know about Cas?”

Lilith put her tongue between her teeth and grinned.

“Oh. Your lover. Hmph.”

She raised a hand to her breast and squeezed it, eyes still fixated on his and coloring with light arousal.

“That lovely lady of mine. Ruby. She does talk so prettily.”

Dean’s eyes widened and he recoiled into the stone of the tomb.

“No. No. You made her.”

Lilith raised and eyebrow and stared at Dean questioningly. “How?” she asked sweetly.

Dean’s eyes dropped as she squeezed at her breast, hard, and he mumbled: “what you’re doing to me, you did it to her. You made her talk.”

Lilith laughed loudly and brought her hand up her chest to rub idly at her neck.

“Oh, hardly, my dear. That would have been absolutely no fun at all. No, you see-“

She sauntered to Dean slowly, biting her lip again, and letting her eyes go half-lidded as she stared. “See, it’s so much fun when you betray each other yourselves. No, you see, that brat of hers and I took a walk to the castle ramparts. And I held him like so-“

She held her arms around an imaginary child at her hips and gestured to her side: “you’ll have to use your imagination, this is the ramparts.” Slowly, she leaned sideways, so that the imaginary child hung over the imaginary boundary, with nothing but space and a hard floor of earth below him.

Lilith trilled as she saw Dean’s eyes widen. “Yes, just like that – you see?” She loosened her grip on the imaginary child and mimicked watching it fall to its death. Even in the silence of the tomb, Dean could almost hear the wail and splatter of the infant meeting its doom. Lilith seemed to be visualizing it too, for when she looked back to Dean, her eyes were alight.

“And then, all of a sudden, she spoke of everything. How she’d gone down to that cottage of yours to feed her brat. And through the walls, she heard you and your lover. How when she caught a glimpse of him through a hole in the wall, he had wings.”

She squealed and rushed forward to Dean. “Don’t you think I’m clever? Just think. You could have escaped so quietly. We could have been married and bedded, and your Angel gone from the City. All well. And I prevented that!”

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight in celebration before pulling back and searching his face with glee. He only stared on horrified, before she clucked with disapproval and turned away, seating herself on the bloody floor and reclining so that she lay on her back, fingers tracing the line of her stomach beneath her nightgown.

“But it’s all worked so well. Now you are mine, and I will make you as he made me. You will be my first, and we will lead them out against the Angelus.”

Dean stared on, and stuttered: “they can’t die.”

“I know _that_ , you dolt. That’s part of the fun!”

Her legs twisted and tightened and she looked to Dean with a flash of desire. “That’s the best part. We’ll punish them again and again. Both of them. The Angels and the humans. Punish them both.”

She fell back laughing so hard that her chest raised off the ground and her back curled, exposing her throat to the ceiling. Her laughter endured long and loudly, and when she did fall backwards, still tittering, her face was flushed bright with elation.

“It’s genius, I know. He will be so pleased with me.”

“I won’t be made. I’m not yours.”

Lilith seemed scarcely offended by the statement as she rolled over and stood slowly. “You’ll be begging for it, in the end.”

She strolled back over to Alastair’s body and watched it for a moment, before looking to Dean and smiling brightly. “I did plan on a challenge. This pet here. He wanted so desperately for it to be him. He organized that assault on your travelling party last year in the hopes of getting you out of the way. So _needy_.”

She spat on the corpse and looked back to Dean, who froze beneath her watch.

“I wanted something more than that, of course. Not a randy little dog that rutted on my leg. I wanted something powerful to stay beside me. So I could show him that I was a good servant.”

She raised her hand to her mouth and covered her excitement.

“And now I have you! Oh, he will love you!”

Lilith started humming to herself in delight as she clasped her hands at her chest and twirled as though she were performing the parvanne for the Court. Slowly, trembling Dean reached forwards and closed his hands tightly around the hilt of his sword. As Lilith ignored him, he rose carefully and silently, raising the weapon into a battle stance and staring at Lilith’s long neck as she rolled her head atop it – exposing it like a tease.

At his first step forward, without opening his eyes, the force of a blow hit Dean again, and the sword was thrown from his grip and across the floor of the tomb. As Dean lunged from it, it flew from his grasp and at the wall, where it was hurled with such force against the stone that the metal shattered and fell in pieces to the ground.

Dean lunged forward, crawling anxiously for Alastair’s body and wrenching the dagger from his chest. With a desperate hurl, he threw it at Lilith’s chest. Halfway in its path, its angle changed and it flew to the right, embedding itself in the wooden door that protected the cell.

Lilith huffed and opened her eyes slowly, staring at Dean with contained rage. “Honestly, Dean. I promise you the world and this is what I get in return?”

As Dean made to stand, she threw a wall of force at him so strong that he was thrown forward onto Alastair’s body and pinned there atop it. Lilith stalked over and stared down at him.

“It’s no use fighting it. I’ll have you, one way or the other. If I cannot change you, I will kill you. It’s a simple choice.”

Dean gritted his teeth and fought against the force holding him down, but it scarcely budged. Lilith chuckled and watched as sweat erupted on his brow with the effort of it.

“This is somewhat pathetic to watch.”

Dean groaned as he forced of his body forward by millimeters, and was rewarded with a smack of force across his face that had him spitting blood onto the floor. When he persevered, Lilith growled and rained down a series of strikes to his body that had him juddering atop the corpse until finally, when the hits stopped, he hung panting back across it with his eyes staring wide at the ceiling.

“This is a taste of the discipline that’s on offer. You’d be far better to concede now and spare me the time, Dean. We have matters to attend to.”

Dean lay back helplessly against Alastair as Lilith turned and made her way to the door to stare out its bars.

“The implements at my disposal will make your blood curdle, Dean Winchester. They’ll pulverize your bones and drain you of blood. They’ll tear apart every sinew that makes up that hunk of meat you’re wearing.”

Dean slid off the body slowly, and ached as he stared at the ceiling. As he readjusted, he felt the silhouette of a weapon at Alastair’s belt slide beneath him and at once, he stiffened. Lilith’s back was turned.

“I can eat your eyeballs in front of you, you know? Your heart too. These devices we keep in this castle – the rack and so on. They’re just the beginning. Playthings to what I can do.”

Dean, as silently as he could, reached behind him and slid his hand under Alastair’s coat. The blade was mercifully at his back and so unencumbered by a body lying atop it. Dean started slightly when his hand found the cool metal and managed a grip on it. Castiel’s. It was Castiel’s blade.

“I think I’d pop your bones apart one by one as a warm up, and flay you. Fry you a little too, I like the smell of that. I’ve always loved a fire in winter.”

Dean extracted the blade carefully, weaving his hand around behind him and concealing the blade from Lilith’s gaze, should she turn around. At one point, as the tip dislodged from its brace, Dean thought he heard a faint ring of metal. But there was no sign from Lilith that she had heard it, and he hurriedly moved into a more aggressive stance – ready to attack – as she moved across the room to stare at Dean from the corner.

“Your skin might make a nice gown. There’s not much-“

Her eyebrow raised as she watched Dean carefully, before her mouth twitched.

“And what insolence are you hiding behind your back?”

Dean gritted his teeth and prepared for the onslaught of force. It twisted his hand tight around the blade and made his wrist ache, but he felt firm, and even as Lilith forced his arm from behind his back for him to brandish it, he retained it and stared Lilith down.

Her smile turned to a grimace and she stared at him anxiously, fists clenching at her sides as the blade shook in his hand. With a final flourish that had a rush of pain shoot up his arm and momentarily paralyze his shoulder with the force of it, she fell backwards with a slight pink tinge to her cheeks.

“Oh. Well _done_ , Slayer. I see he taught you well.”

Dean stood hurriedly, before Lilith had a change to recover and moved forward. She held him back after a few steps, but barely, and he pushed his arm forwards towards her, angling the blade to a kill stance. Her eyes widened slightly and she stepped backwards, extending a hand towards Dean to keep him in position.

“Do you know what you yield, Slayer?”

Dean gritted his teeth and pushed on, staring down Lilith as the flush of her cheeks deepened and her eyes flashed with anxiety. With a quick rush of force, he fell backwards, but the burst was short-lived and it seemed to drain Lilith as she bared her teeth and hissed at him.

“I have a good enough idea.”

In an errant though, Dean’s mind flickered back to the forest, where he had teased Cas for the same blade that he now held tightly and desperately in his hand – the blade that could kill any living thing, as far as he was aware. Mercifully brought to him the moment he needed it the most.

She tittered, although it was a weakened thing and glared at Dean as he managed another step forward towards her.

“So... you think you have... defeated me, Slayer.”

Dean nodded slowly and forced another step. Lilith grunted, in a thoroughly strained way, before she pushed him backwards with a twist of her fingers, and grimaced.

“Well...” she puffed, eyes gleaming as she met his and grinned in a forced way around the effort she was exerting, “you’ve certainly proved your mettle. But I wonder. Did you anticipate... this?”

With a rush, the force at Dean’s chest was gone, but he only had a second to rush to Lilith before she took over. With a rush of air, the blade Dean had thrown dislodged itself from the door and soared at her, piercing her chest at her heart and blasting through it, straight at Dean. He dodged it with a roll across the floor, and looked up in time to see Lilith wink at him and grin: “You’ll live to regret this, Dean.”

As blood spread across her chest, staining her nightgown, she opened her mouth wide, and with a rush of white smoke, she crumpled. The smoke hung in the air momentarily, twisting and unfurling, filling the room with a rotten stench, before, in a rush it raced towards the ceiling and burned itself through, leaving a heavy scorch mark in its wake.

Dean ran forward, blade at the ready, to plunge it into Lilith’s chest, but as he raised it above her, her eyes fluttered open and in an entirely unfamiliar voice she plead: “please.... no!”

It was scarcely a whisper, weak in disuse, but its weakness was enough to silence Dean momentarily before he dropped to the floor and Lilith’s eyes fluttered open. Only they were not as he had seen them, so many times. They were wide, and suddenly childlike and terrified as they looked up at Dean and welled with tears.

“ _Please_... don’t... don’t hurt me.”

Even as Dean dropped his blade in shock, the body beneath him began to judder violently and the color drained from Lilith’s face. Her features twisted in pain, and her eyes scrunched shut for a moment, before she stared up at Dean.

“Twenty years... since I was... a child. She... controlled me. I fought...but...”

She gasped beneath him and her knees dragged up to her chest, as her shaking hands tried to wrap around her wound. Dean, without thinking, dropped his hand to her and squeezed tightly.

“She... she killed.... my parents.... poisoned them.... and framed.... framed the boy. It was the only.... the only time I had.... any control.... when they died.... she made sure that.... I was watching. _Ah!_ ”

Her body convulsed around the wound and she fell backwards, panting. Dean used his free hand to reach behind her and cradle her head softly, tracing a line across her cheek, which was wetting with tears as Lilith’s eyes brimmed over and she stared to sob around her words and gasps.

“I’m sorry... I wasn’t strong... enough. I tried to... to warn you... I didn’t want to... I tried to...”

Dean shook his head quickly and brushed the girl’s tears across her cheeks quickly. “You don’t need to- I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. That I touched you. That I-“

The girl shook her head dumbly beneath him. “It was... nice.... being so.... so close to a .... human.... warm... she was so... cold... I knew that.... I knew that... you were a good man....I’m sorry...”

Her words turned into an aching cry as the wound at her chest began to pulse harder, as her heart stuttered out its final beats.

“I... What can I do? How can I help you?” Dean breathed, as the girl’s face paled and she began to shiver beneath his hold.

She smiled softly and shook her head, lip trembling as a fresh burst of tears trailed down her cheeks. Beneath his hand, her fingers fluttered around his, in a feeble attempt at a squeeze.

“I... I want it... to be over...I want to be at peace now...”

Dean nodded quickly and felt a pull at the back of his throat as the girl weakened beneath him, eyes hooding sleepily as her grip grew weaker.

“I... I don’t know much about... God and heaven. But... I knew an Angel... I think, if he were here, he’d say that... he’d say that you’d be gettin’ that. You’ll get peace.”

She nodded slowly and her eyes flickered shut momentarily before she forced them open, breathing harshly.

“Th-thank you....”

Her chest twitched and her hand tightened convulsively around Dean’s.

“D-d-dean?”

“Yes?”

Dean leaned over the girl’s dying body as she stared up at him anxiously, and whispered: “C-Castiel. He... he’s alive.... trapped... in... a tomb. Tor... tortured him.”

Dean shuddered in her hold as her hand loosened again and her eyes drooped shut for a moment, before she opened them blearily to stare at him. He looked down at her blankly for a moment, before grabbing her tightly and shaking her to re-awaken her dying body.

“W-What? Where? Where is the tomb?!”

She gasped at his touch and her body shuddered again, before going limp.

“T-tomb... hidden... behind a... wall. H-h-he’s there... the Angels... can’t... find...”

Her mouth twisted around a last strangled syllable as her body went loose in his arms. Dean stared blankly for a moment as she draped backwards, mouth falling open and loose and eyes losing their light, staring blankly up at the ceiling of the cell. “L-lilith? N-no! No! Please! Please, where is he?!”

Her body failed to respond as he shook it, first softly, and then harder, and as he dropped his face towards hers, cradling it and crying out: “please! Please! Where is he?”

She only fell looser as he fought to seek the answer forever taken from him, and clawed at her as though he could grab it from her dead body. As the knowledge dawned properly, Dean fell backwards, shaking and stammering, and staring at the door of the dungeon. With haste, he stood and ran forwards, jostling at the door and cried out when he realized it was locked.

“Please! Please! Help!”

His cries only went a minute before they were answered, with a rush of guards to the site, who, upon Dean’s tearful insistence, opened the tomb and stumbled in, over Lilith’s body and onto Alastair’s.

They stared at Dean, eyes wide, to where he stood before them in a bloodstained shirt, with wide tearful eyes and an expression of temporary madness. Before he could explain, or even make to fight his way from the tomb, they stormed him and beat in him into submission, manacling him to the wall and hitting him until he fell into unconsciousness.

Between blows and kicks and slices, they yelled again and again: “Treason! Treason! Treason!”

...

** 2013 **

Gabriel closed the book and refused to open it again, even when Castiel made to fly across the table at him in desperation.

“You know how it ends, Castiel.”

“N-no, I... No! What happened to him?!”

Gabriel pulled the book out of Castiel’s reach and pushed his brother away as he advanced determinedly. “You know the reason why I won’t show you. You know already.”

Castiel slumped against the wall of the library as Gabriel stared at him, wide-eyed with a pained expression. At his stomach, Castiel’s fingers knotted together and twisted, mimicking the feeling of his insides and his Grace as it tensed around the sudden realization.

 _I have this thing about stuff round my neck_. Greg’s wide eyes as he woke up, panting. _What happened to Dean, Cas?_

He flinched as he looked up at Gabriel, and his expression confirmed Castiel’s suspicions.

“The final day of Winter.” He said, staring at the cover of the manuscript, eyes narrowed. “He was taken to the City Square and hanged for treason. Ruby Montague screamed in her cell that he was falsely accused and Bobby Singer and Garth Fitzgerald were detained for public disturbance when they protested the sentence.”

“But... who could have...?”

“The Lord Chancellor Azazel passed down the sentence,  and the jury voted in favor. When Dean hung, Azazel whispered in his ear that he ought to pay for bedding his wife and making such a fool of him.”

Castiel’s stomach threatened to heave itself from his body, as he fell backwards and jolted forwards simultaneously. Gabriel stood across from him, face stony, as he watched his brother heave out disbelief like a waterfall until at last he fell silent, trembling and staring at his hands.

Dean hanged. Dean dead, in a merciless way. Before the City he had sworn to protect, with the title traitor hung around him like a crown of thorns.

“Castiel, we don’t have very much time. What you have done to Greg, it needs to be mended, as soon as possible. And there is more you need to understand, if you wish to recover him.”

“Wh-what?”

Gabriel shook his head and replaced Dean’s volume on the table.

“Your lover bent the laws of physics, time and matter to recover you. You had suspected. I know you had.”

“Greg?”

Gabriel nodded soundlessly and laced his fingers together before him, as he seated himself at the table again. Castiel followed him shakily, leaning heavily on the table as he re-seated himself before his brother.

Licking his lips lightly, Gabriel stared at the table worriedly, before meeting Castiel’s eyes cautiously, and murmuring: “Do you understand what you saw, Castiel?”

Castiel, leaned backwards, breathing heavily, and shook his head slowly. “That _creature_. Lilith, she was...”

Gabriel nodded and pulled another volume towards him, this time with a blackened name, illegible beneath the charcoal rubbing and gestured at two others. “The first of the fallen.”

Gabriel stayed quiet as Castiel reached forward and pulled one of the titles towards him and traced the shape of the name obscured beneath the rough crossing out, where spaced had been engraved for a human soul.

_Victoria Reminne._

He looked up cautiously to Gabriel, who nodded slowly and slid across another title. Castiel’s hand traced the next name slowly, feeling out for each letter and freezing when he realized their contents.

_Alastair Rengale._

The third, Gabriel held close to his chest, and stared at Castiel blankly.

“Victoria was the first human soul that he took and twisted. Until she was unrecognizable.”

Castiel stuttered and traced the name with his fingers slowly, staring at the shape of the empty engraving in the leather.

“She possessed Lilith.”

Gabriel nodded quickly. “And more besides. Lucifer twisted her with his touch until she was empowered by her loyalty to him.  You saw, she was powerful.”

“How-“

“You know what goodness the human soul is capable of. The same is true if it is corrupted. It can become monstrous.”

Castiel stared down at the name again and traced the outline of the book. He stopped short of trying to open it, at Gabriel’s cautioning gaze, and sat backwards.

“She wanted Dean to become... like her.”

Gabriel’s expression turned severe quickly and he lowered the book that he held at his chest, with the final blacked out name, before pulling Alastair’s book back and replacing it. With a meaningful gesture at the cover, he allowed Castiel to raise his hand and trace the final name engraved into the cover.

“She was the second demon, that Lilith created. And Alastair was the third.”

Castiel’s nails dug into the edge of leather as he computed the name elaborated on the cover and his heart caught in his chest with a sudden burst of grief for the woman he had scarcely known, but felt as if he had abandoned nonetheless. _Ruby Montague_.

...

Gabriel was silent as he escorted to Castiel to an abandoned “warehouse” in the back alleys of “Detroit”. At its entrance was the only sign that it was anything other than a wasted lot – two suited Angels, bearing human faces, stood guard at its doorway, and bowed upon their arrival. Their hung heads didn’t obscure the fact their interest was directed at Castiel rather than Gabriel, despite his higher status.

Castiel scarcely bothered about the silence. He was still shaking from the revelation in Heaven. It was not that Lilith being something other than human surprised him – he had surmised that from her enthusiasm in the tomb, and her breathy celebrations to Lucifer as she burned, and branded and bit into his flesh with delight.

It was what she had been made that horrified him, and more so still that she had been successful in her aspirations, Gabriel had blankly explained that her kind –demonkind – had multiplied as she had expected. First by taking weak-willed souls and transforming them, and then later recruiting souls based on exchanges made at crossroads. The banks of Hell – Lucifer’s newly formed playground – were teeming with recruits and more flowed in every day. The Angels knew of the tactics, and Hell’s aspirations, but they were powerless to prevent its growth, even now hundreds of years later.

The volume was one thing, and the fact that it was _human_ souls they were required to exterminate to demean Hell’s forces, were equal restrains. Worse, humanity had aspired to Lilith’s words. Demonkind was careful to fly under the radar – generally causing small incidences of violence and terrorism rather than on a larger scale. In that sense, they found kinship in the more disturbed of the humans, who engaged in violence for delight alike. And for that reason, even when their forces were diminished, they were never properly nullified. Lilith, Lucifer and their kind lived on and flourished.

At the centre of the room Gabriel lead them to was a bright red circle, adorned with a variety of ancient symbols, that Castiel roughly translated to an old poem:

_Born by blood_

_Die by blood_

_Within your flesh_

_I entreat you_

Gabriel smirked as Castiel read the words. “Not quite what one would expect, but it does the trick.” He gestured to the pattern and looked at Castiel with a soft expression. “Devil’s Traps, we call them. In honor of Dean.”

Castiel scarcely noted the explanation, but for witnessing the blonde woman that stood in the circle before them, glaring feverishly at Gabriel and hissing lightly. He ignored her, instead watching for Castiel’s reaction as he surveyed her true face.

If Greg’s hand been a shock, hers was worse by a long shot. Blackened, flayed and diseased at every part, it had been pulverized and brought back together t be painted with tar. Crude stitching held it together, pulling parts of flesh that had never been joined into a horrific shape that scarcely resembled a face at all – rather a swirling mass of putrid waste. At its centre were three holes, left to gape and huff stinking bile into the air.

It was entirely foreign and Castiel only looked to Gabriel, who shook his head slowly and pronounced a soft prayer. When he was done, he turned back to Castiel. “”Believe it or not, you knew her once.”

It would have been impossible to determine, who she had been once, but for their previous conversation, and the fact that across from him the blonde woman smirked and her eyes narrowed.

“The Son of God, is it? Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. See, back home, we just refer to you as the Bestial.”

Castiel flinched as she advanced forward to the edge of the circle and bared her teeth at him, grinning and falling back cackling as he fell back into Gabriel. “Gospel of the Coward, more like. Heh, worse than most humans.”

Gabriel ignored her in favor of turning back to Castiel and pursing his lips. “You see her – what she has become?”

Castiel turned back to her slowly, taking the time to force himself past the masticated flesh of her true face, and the polished flesh of her vessel to be see beyond. He knew from the volume left on the table in Heaven who he looked upon, but still, it was hard to believe it.

The woman crossed her arms and began to tap her foot impatiently against the ground, her high-heeled shoes clacking against the floor. When Castiel soundlessly answered, she rolled her eyes and spat: “Ruby, genius. My name was Ruby.”

She clicked her tongue once and shifted her weight to her hip. “They call me Satan’s whore now, though. Open for business, if you feel like you could do with something a little more exciting than Heaven and the drone armies.”

She flicked her tongue out at Gabriel and winked, and he arched an eyebrow in response. “I’d be more tempted by a hole carved in a rotten pumpkin, sweetheart.”

She sneered and strolled backwards from the edge, fiddling with a nail and souring as she appraised it.

“After Dean took Sam from the City, she was left defenceless. Lilith took her and held her captive. I believe she was meant to be a lower-order demon at first but when Dean refused to participate she was the next best option. There was no one to speak for her, and no one noted when she disappeared.”

Across from them, Ruby stiffened, but didn’t turn around.

“I understand it was a year in the pit to turn her, and she’s been third-in-command since then. We’ve tracked her but we haven’t made to kill her. It... it was floated that you might prefer...”

Castiel stared at Ruby’s back as she turned away from them, and watched as – for a moment – a human hunch of betrayal pulsed through it, before she whirled hissing and eyes flashing dark black.

“I will gut you both if you so much as even try!”

Castiel stepped back quickly and turned to Gabriel, shaking his head quickly and shielding his eyes from where Ruby stood on the edge of the circle, eyes still dark and chin tilted downward in an aggressive stare.

Quickly, he took Gabriel by the arm and dragged him away. “Brother, I cannot.”

Gabriel stole a glance at Ruby before looking back to Castiel with a nonplussed expression. “She is no longer human, Castiel. We cannot redeem her.”

“She was Sam’s once. And Dean’s. I could not... Keith, is he?”

 The question did not need to finish for Gabriel to catch its gist and he nodded quickly. “He followed his brother when he passed, as did the Watchman Bobby Singer.”

Castiel, despite his hopes, was ready to protest the impossibility of that when Ruby hissed from the circle, with such vengeance that Castiel could not help but turn to stare at her. She rushed forward, running headlong into the invisible wall that separated her from them, and battered at it with her fists.

“Sam Winchester?!”

For a moment her expression dropped, and there was an expression of pure desperation in her skin, before the mask snapped up and her eyes flashed black again. With a growl, she whirled again and turned away, shoulders raising with tension as she paced the edge of the circle. In a dark mutter, she whispered with ferocity: “I will _kill him_. He will suffer for what he has done.”

Castiel turned quickly to Gabriel, who looked implacable as he watched Ruby twist and her hands with anger, before shrugging and looking back towards Castiel.

“We can imprison her, if you’d prefer. Either way, she’s caused enough trouble. And she cannot be let near Sam Winchester – or his little dish. She’ll kill them both. Slowly.”

Ruby froze in the centre of the circle and her fists clenched at her sides. With a howl she turned back to the wall and screamed bloody at Gabriel, in an indecipherable heathen tongue that no doubt had emerged during her time with Lilith – for each syllable stung with rancid bitterness and contorted her mouth into variations upon snarls and cries. Gabriel pulled them away slowly, and placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. A moment later, they were re-installed in Greg’s hospital room, and met by the sound of Jessica emitting a mild scream as she stumbled backwards from where she had been standing at Greg’s bedside, clutching at his hand.

Gabriel winked at her as he dropped his hand from Castiel’s shoulder, and clicked his tongue: “Hello  sweetheart.”

Despite her shock, Jessica’s eyes narrowed at the inappropriate endearment, and a moment later, Sam had risen and stood beside her with his arm hovering protectively at her waist. On the other side of the room, Bobby crossed his arms and hummed a low growl, staring at Gabriel with an instant kind of resentment that even seemed to floor the archangel for a moment.

“Tough crowd here Castiel,” he joked, as he stepped forwards and placed two fingers on Greg’s forehead. A jolt of Grace shot through his fingertips into the skin, and for a moment Greg’s body shuddered, and Jessica stepped backwards, hands rising to her mouth.

Greg failed to move, but his body seemed to relax, even in deep unconsciousness, unfurling into the sheets slightly, and his breath dropping a notch to a slower, easier pace. Quickly, Sam and Jessica both rushed forward and felt for his pulse, before grabbing at his hand and shaking it quickly.

“He won’t wake yet,” Gabriel pronounced unsympathetically, before looking back to Castiel.

Castiel scarcely waited before stepping forward to take Greg’s free hand himself and examining it quickly. “What did you do?”

“Psychic pain. Morphine won’t do the job, so I gave him a shot of the good stuff. It’ll hold him for a little longer. But we don’t have much time to sort things out.”

Castiel squeezed Greg’s hand once before dropping it back on the hospital bed and stepping forward quickly.

“Gabriel, for all that you’ve told me this afternoon, do you know what has happened here? Can you help him?”

Gabriel’s eyes dropped to Greg’s body quickly, and he bit his lip lightly, before looking back at Castiel. “In a manner of speaking. Depends which _him_ you prefer.”

He dropped his hand to Greg’s arm and traced down the skin until he found where Dean’s amulet now hung, still suspended around the wrist. Castiel’s eyes fell to it, recognizing that it had not been there when he had left – the doctors had removed it from Greg to facilitate treatment. Jessica flushed as his eyes met hers, and Sam squeezed her tight around her waist and pulled her closer to him, eyes warily on Gabriel.

“Greg. You care for him too, don’t you Castiel? A great deal, if I read the Gospel right.”

His fingers twisted the amulet once before he let it drop across Greg’s wrist and turned back to face Castiel.

“Dean or no Dean.”

Castiel swallowed quickly and dropped his gaze to where Greg lay on the bed. Dean’s face, but not. Dean’s voice, but not. Dean’s soul, but ravaged somehow. Changed. Not in a way that changed him. Not in a way that made the thrum in his veins still, or the twist of his stomach quell. Dean. Dean. Dean.

“He _is_ Dean, isn’t he?”

Gabriel’s eyebrows raised, and he nodded quickly, looking back to Greg with something of pity.

“In a way. He’s your boy after a few more lifetimes, and a lot in between. Changed a lot, but not enough that you were deceived.”

Castiel’s breath left his chest with the same haste that Jessica, Sam and Bobby’s did, and he moved forward to Greg and once, pulling his hand up to his chest and leaning low so that their foreheads were almost touching.

“God. God, I knew it. I felt it. But...Gabriel, what have I done?”

Gabriel stepped up behind him and looked down over Greg’s body, shuffling and crossing his arms.

“You? Very little. Your Grace shock did the trick – it set alight the brand you did on his soul. Ripped your boy from the recesses and brought him forward.”

_Cas. Cas. It’s me, it’s-_

Gabriel’s voice lowered and across from them, Jessica gripped Dean’s hand so hard that it seemed to make his entire body vibrate with the force of it.

“He did a lot more. You brought down the walls of his mind, Cas. And now he’s remembered everything. Including that deal he made with Death.”

 

 

 

 


	35. Sleeper, Awake!

** Chapter Thirty Four **

** 2013 **

“Cas! Cas! What the _hell_ is going on?”

Even Jessica, usually gracious, was flushed red with anger and disbelief as the group assembled across the hospital bed and stared at him with incredulity.

“W-Who is he? And why is he saying that Dean is.... that he’s _Greg?_ Did you know?”

Castiel looked back to Gabriel quickly, who sighed and turned away, wandering to the window and bowing his head in what Castiel assumed was a prayer, that he didn’t bother to tune into, instead dropping lower to smooth his hand across Greg’s forehead and breathing out the apology: “Oh God, Greg. I’m sorry.”

“Cas? Cas, what is happening?”

Bobby’s eyes were beaded with confusion and fear, and Sam was utterly floored by the revelation, staring at Greg’s body like he was seeing it for the first time. For one terrified moment, Castiel worried that he might have made the connection, and his walls were ready to crumble too, but he stepped back, breathing harshly and dropped his head to Jessica’s shoulder.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What, he got something to do with it? Death, God, Angels? What the hell is goin’ on, boy?”

Bobby’s rough address was lost on Castiel, who merely looked pleadingly back to Gabriel, who turned and raised an eyebrow at the gathered confusion, before stepping forward and laying a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“We’re running out of time, brother. There may be days yet, but I cannot predict how his mind will endure. This part is unscripted.”

Castiel gasped in a breath around a wave of nausea, and rose quickly.

“What do we do?”

Gabriel’s lip twitched and he crossed to the base of the bed, laying a hand on Greg’s ankle.

“The walls need to go back up, simple as that. You’ve seen his face - his soul’s in the same shape. If you want him to live, I need to operate. As soon as possible. Otherwise, he needs to go back up to Heaven before he cracks apart and disperses. Either way, it’s going to need an amputation.”

“ _What?_ ”

Sam staggered a little, and it was Jessica that had to turn and catch him, rushing to place a chair under his bulk as he fell downwards – legs suddenly incapable of bearing his weight.

“What the bloody hell is an amputation, boy?”

Gabriel whirled on Bobby, who quailed at the sight of the sudden swell of his figure that marked the rush of his Grace. “Be careful how you address me, sir, or else he will pulverize before you.”

Bobby fell backwards against the wall and stared blankly, as Gabriel turned to Castiel and commenced in a low hurried explanation.

“Your boy made a deal with Death. He’d employ him in exchange for new lifetimes. One thousand lives per go, that was the rule. He’s been reaping for him since the day he was hanged.”

Atop the hospital bed, Dean slept soundly and silently, as though the revelation did not have the implication it did.

“Humans cannot reap.”

Gabriel shook his head and stared at the lifeless body.

“The Righteous Man can, if he chooses. A human soul with a shard of Angel Grace is hardier than most. That’s how he’s lasted this long. But as you can see, it took its toll.”

Before them, Greg’s face swam with the injuries of his occupation – open and weeping sores, an a gaping empty mouth that seemed sunken into a permanent howl at the ceiling. Castiel ignored looking to Sam and Bobby, and their both empty looking faces – tired and wailing.

“The others?”

“No, he took the fall for them all. One thousand for all three, that was the deal.”

Gabriel stepped forward and squeezed Greg’s ankle.

“A human soul isn’t made to bear it, Castiel. You know that. He was inhuman – we could scarcely have detected him, he is so scented with death. Even when he was granted a lifetime, it followed him, he was too ruined with it. The parents, Krissy Bradbury, Benny LaFitte. They were the casualties of the distortion of nature – too tinged with the stench of it to stay alive, despite our intentions otherwise. And more besides in other lifetimes.”

Greg’s face was almost weary as he slept, ageing with the context of his arrival in the circumstance that had an archangel gripping at his body as though it were the chalice of life itself.

“We looked for him, you have to be sure. But Death had him, and even God cannot control that being’s power. He was lost to us until you returned. Our Father proclaimed you would.”

He stepped forward quickly and placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“But he’s becoming fragile now, Castiel. Even the Righteous Man will falter. Our Father knows this, and he will grant him reprieve. But there are practicalities.”

“What?”

Gabriel shook his head and grimaced.

“Castiel, the Bible has been rewritten. The third testament, it’s... The second Son of God, who was sacrificed for the sins of the many. The Gospel of Castiel and the Righteous Man. It’s in its final stages of completion.”

Castiel gaped as Gabriel stepped back quickly, shaking his head hurriedly. Gabriel stepped forward, eyes firm as he reached for Castiel and released Dean’s ankle to hold his brother’s bicep with reassuring force.

“Our Father knew of it. When he cast us out, he set the wheels in motion for his own Fall. But your boy, and his desire for Free Will – he rewrote the script. We were never meant to end up here. The demons were the variable that we missed. We don’t know how this part will play out. Only that the Righteous Man should be saved.”

Castiel felt his chest rise and begin to heave with the exertion of bearing the onslaught of confused knowledge that Gabriel threw at him, with growing guilt and sorrow.

“I don’t understand what you-“

“Cas?” Jessica’s voice shook with the exertion of pronouncing the small word and Sam shifted closer to her as it trailed off.

Gabriel sighed and stepped backwards, pacing to the window again and staring outwards.

“Castiel, we were always to Fall. Lucifer would always betray us. Our Father knew that. You know that the Fates are written.”

He leaned forwards and spread his hands on the sill of the window.

“You were always to meet Dean. To redeem us for our folly. The Angel of Thursday and the Righteous Man would symbolize redemption of Angelkind, and Lucifer himself.”

His fingers tightened around the sill and he looked forwards.

“Lucifer, as his Father’s brightest star. He knew that. He knew more than any of us ever did. And he set out to rewrite the narrative. He took the first human – Victoria – though you knew her as Lilith, and distorted her beyond comprehension. She was the first demon. And for her he built Hell and crowned her as its Princess.”

“ _What?_ Cas!”

There was a flurry as Jessica stumbled slightly too and Sam caught her from his chair, pulling her tight to him and staring at Gabriel with wide eyes. Castiel himself was frozen in place – almost ice as his blood seemed to cease beating in his veins, and his entire body lay suspended for the explanation of his circumstance and the fall from the precipice on which they teetered.

“You saw what Lilith hoped. And what they did, together. Each of us, as our Grace faltered... they invaded our minds and twisted our thoughts with their words until we were nothing but anger and resentment and defiling hatred for humanity. When we passed, the last of our Grace spoiled us and we became their army. We failed our Father and sought to end them.”

He shook his head, and there was a crack in his voice that marked the summoning of tears.

“All of us, Castiel. We failed him. And we joined Lucifer, as animals. I do not... I do not remember it clearly. But there are flashes. I stalked and hunted, and...”

He hung his head.

“I was one that took to Ardus. There was a man that I pulled from the square and threw to the ground, and... I feasted on this throat.”

There was an ache to Gabriel’s explanation that had him falter and pause, breathing heavily and raising his hand to press with regret at his teeth before he turned his back to the window and looked across the hospital room to where Greg still lay and recoiled from him, terrified.

“Our Father had not known that Lucifer would take us, and Lilith too. He did not know until after it was done, and by then it was too late.”

Gabriel sniffed and met Castiel dead in the eyes. Castiel’s heart caught in a suspended beat, and the blood seemed to drip from it in his chest as he stared forward, almost unseeing in his denial of what he heard.

“You... you were always to die... at the hands of men... for Dean. Just as the first son of God did. _Forgive them Father, they know not what they do._ You know that, of course.”

When Castiel failed to acknowledge the statement, Gabriel looked away, seeming almost foolish as he continued: “You were always to go to the tomb, and be imprisoned there. Until the third day. The stone was to roll away and you were to rise again. To recover the Righteous Man and bring him to Heaven.”

Gabriel swallowed carefully.

“Our Father had opened the Gates, but you never emerged. The demon…she marked it. You were hidden from us and our Father and unable to leave – evil runes of old. We knew nothing of your whereabouts, foolish as it was. We tried for centuries.”

Castiel’s hand twitched at his side and raised to cover his mouth quickly, not against bile, but at the eruption of his Grace in his belly which seemed intent on rushing forward and escaping the circumstance.

“Our Father, he sought us out. When you fell, it redeemed us. Regardless of Lucifer’s touch. You alleviated out sins, as Jesus did those of humans. When you awoke in that tomb, so did we.”

Castiel slowly shook his head and stumbled backwards in disbelief. “Gabriel, I cannot-“

“The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Did you ever wonder why the third was so figurative? Come on, Castiel, we were all foolish but it is plain now.”

Castiel’s knees gave way beneath him, though it was scarcely noticed by the rest of the room, as Gabriel reached out and caught him with Grace, wrenching him upwards and meeting his eyes.

“Brother, do not be afraid. Our Father does not wish it.”

Gabriel’s words were lost upon Castiel as they were upon the rest of the room, and held close to Sam, Jessica whimpered with the sudden realization and dropped her gaze from Castiel, coming over entirely in tremors.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Cas?”

Bobby was dazed from his spot against the wall as he stepped forward once, knees twitching as though he thought he ought to bow, or make a greater show of their friendship in light of the narrative that had been spelt for them. Castiel’s brow furrowed, and he breathed heavily watching Bobby, until Bobby grimaced and stepped back, crossing his arms and pressing his lips together.

“Well, shit.”

There was a heavy silence as Gabriel stared at Castiel and reached out slowly for him. Castiel accepted the touch, but did little else but to stare emptily at Greg’s body on the hospital bed, before looking to Gabriel and whispering: “Please. Greg. What can I do?”

Gabriel’s eyes dropped and he walked around to Greg slowly.

“It had been intended you would have him as Dean. He was to sit by your side. There’s... there’s a throne in heaven, with his name on it. Hard to believe, to be honest. But... our Father insisted.”

He chuckled bleakly before looking to Castiel and his expression dropped.

“You didn’t emerge from the tomb though, and you were buried alive. The stone was supposed to roll away, but instead you were trapped. So your lover made the deal and damned himself. And now here we are.”

Castiel rushed forward, heart suddenly bursting into pounding motion as he croaked at Gabriel: “If I restored you, why did you not stop him? You were alive? Why did you let him?”

Gabriel dropped his gaze and then his stature deferentially as Castiel stared down upon him, voice lowering as he stated blandly: “He rewrote the story. We did not know what he would do until it was done. Our Father attempted to negotiate, but... there was no avail. When the Angels fell, there were no reapers. Millions of souls were lost during that time. Death has been frantic ever since according them places. And he hasn’t forgiven our Father for allowing the creation of Hell. He needed Dean’s assistance and he took it. Your lover reaped thousands and set things right, at least partially.”

Castiel brushed past Gabriel in his haste to get to Greg and clutch at his hand, dropping his forehead to Greg’s chest and pleading: “Father, please. Help him.”

Gabriel paused a moment, before moving slowly around the bed to follow Castiel and laying a hand on his shoulder.

“He already is, Castiel. As we speak, he is alleviating Dean of his obligations.”

 “What?”

Gabriel’s hand tightened around Castiel’s shoulder and his tone turned somber.

“Paying in early, so to speak. Death is reaping him. Now.”

Castiel stood in such a hurry that his wings spread momentarily across the room, and at the other side, a lamp fell and shattered on the floor.

“What?!”

“God is dying. You know how he likes things in threes. This is the third sacrifice, and the final one. Death will reap him, to settle the deal.”

Jessica sobbed loudly, and Bobby hit the floor as he was the last to lose his balance, descending with a thump and staring wide-eyed at Gabriel.

“He cannot! Our Father-“

“The decision was made a long time ago. Death was always to reap him. He’s cashing in early, to atone for his own sins. Should right the deficiency of souls in the Universe and so forth. Good and evil have to balance. You know that.”

“The order-“

Gabriel smiled meekly. “Jesus is a good kid. He’ll run things fine. Death’ll keep an eye on things too – he’s not ready for another administrative error anytime soon. Things will progress well. You have to have faith. Have faith in him.”

Castiel stilled as Gabriel’s smile turned forlorn, and tears gathered at the corner of his eyes.

“He said he loved you, Castiel. He has faith in you. Do the same for him.”

The room fell silent as Gabriel turned and hung his head over Greg’s body, fiddling with the blanket at the edge of the hospital bed. Sam and Bobby cried earnestly with Jessica across from them, utterly overwhelmed by the scale of Gabriel’s pronouncement and almost entirely oblivious to the arrival of two new Angels in the room.

The rush of air that accompanied their wing beats was enough to startle them though, and had they not already been so drained, they might have screamed in horror again. At the end of Greg’s bed, Barachiel and Anael stood, arms folded at their fronts and heads hung heavy.

“It is done,” Barachiel pronounced blandly. A moment later, Greg’s body twitched once, and then descended back into sleep that was somehow immediately less labored. On his true face, his soul yawned once, and then seemed to melt in relief, descending to hug the features of his physical form.

Gabriel gave one sniff and crossed his chest as a mark of respect, before he raised his gaze to Castiel.

“Brother, they are here to heal your lover.”

Barachiel and Anael crossed the room silently to stand either side of Greg’s head, keeping their eyes cast down. Castiel stuttered as he took Greg’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

“The amputation. What is it?”

Gabriel looked at him carefully, and proceeded lightly.

“Part of Dean’s soul has stayed in stasis. It’s the part that Death held for him. It held his intention to return to you. His memories of the place he fell. I am sure you have seen it from time to time, beneath these features.”

Castiel nodded carefully and ran a thumb across the back of Greg’s hand, following the path of a bulging vein and pressing on it lightly, feeling the reassuring pump of blood in the flesh.

“The other part is that of Greg. That part of Dean that carried on and endured more lifetimes. That part is the aspect that you have been dealing with since you emerged from the tomb. That part is Dean too, but it is also that of others that he lived. There a hundredfold more memories in there. Each stored discretely to avoid overlap, although they bleed on occasion.”

“You... you’re asking me to choose?”

The watching party froze as Castiel squeezed Greg’s hand so tight that the bones cracked beneath his hold, and bubbles of gas were sent rushing through the body.

Gabriel shook his head lightly. “It’s not necessarily... as simple as that. Greg –that part is Dean too.. if we remove him, that part of Dean might change.”

“But Dean came before Greg…”

“They’re one and the same Castiel. We could attempt to separate them. If we took both souls to heaven, we could install them separately, but we cannot guarantee…” his eyes flickered towards Castiel and he pursed his lips. “Or we could return Dean to his rightful place, and merge him with Greg’s soul. When he passes Greg will remember being Dean too. He would be yours as always, but on Earth we would have to install walls. If you would prefer we can take-“

 “No. No. Greg.... Greg has more yet to live. I cannot have him-“

Gabriel nodded understandingly. “We expected this, Castiel.”

He smiled, perhaps with the first light of genuine elation that had marked their reunion. “I... I admire you so, brother. You redeemed us, and you continue to now.”

He dropped his gaze down to Greg’s body, and ran a hand along his forearm.

“It would only be a matter of years. This body is fated to last. Another fifty or so. Then he would return, and you would have all of him. In the meantime, he would be the man you have been with for the past few weeks. A little grouchy, but... good. Yours still. In love with you, of course.”

Castiel leaned close and dropped a kiss to Greg’s hand, before looking to Anael and Barachiel at the end of the bed. “Yes.”

Anael nodded smiling radiantly, and dropped a hand to the crown of Greg’s head, which she stroked carefully. Almost reverently. Barachiel grinned wider and his teeth shone as his eyes welled before Castiel. A heave at his chest marked a small laugh and he dropped his hand to mimic Anna’s.

Gabriel lowered his hand to Castiel’s shoulder again and smiled through a slightly tearful expression. “When we wake him up, Dean will be there. You can talk and... bid him farewell, for now, at least. Make an explanation. But you need to keep him calm. If he fights it, we could do damage to the soul otherwise. This is intricate and we must act with care.”

Castiel nodded quickly and stood slowly, still holding Greg’s hand tight. “Can I assist?”

Gabriel shook his head and stepped to place his hand beside Anael’s. “We just need you to keep him calm and under control. We cannot reveal too much. The _minds_ must not collapse.”

His odd plural struck Castiel and the intimation was made complete with Gabriel’s inclination of his head towards Sam and Bobby, staring at Greg’s body with horror. The implication was lost on them though, and they stood statue-like, staring at Greg as the Angels positioned themselves around him and prepared for remedy. Quickly, Castiel carefully moved to stand in front of Greg, so that they were partially obscured from his view. There was no way to dismiss them – not when they cared for him so – without losing valuable time, and so his hope was that Dean could be subdued and prevented from revealing anything too severe – at least before he caught sight of them. And then to give him a last glimpse of his family, at least for the time being.

He seated himself on the edge of the hospital bed and nodded to the Angels, who smiled once and turned their gaze down to Greg, closing their eyes and focusing intently. Greg’s body quickly began to hum quietly with Grace. A slow trickle at first, but then a stronger rush, until, with a jolt, his heart pounded once and suddenly his eyelids twitched.

Castiel leaned forward carefully, placing a comforting hand on Greg’s chest and holding him in position lightly, in case he planned to move forward and disrupt the Angels’ careful hold on him. However, his body reacted slowly, and it took a minute of aborted attempts for Dean to open his eyes. Once he did keep them open, they were only bleary for a moment, before they focused and settled on Castiel. A slow smile crept over Dean’s face as he gradually gained control of the muscles there, pulling back his lip to reveal Greg’s bright white teeth and polished gums.

“Cas… Cas.”

“I’m here, Dean. I’m here.”

“I can see you.”

Castiel heaved out a breathy laugh as he descended quickly and pressed his lips softly to Dean’s cheek. Dean shucked in a tiny breath beneath him, before he chuckled against Castiel’s skin and whispered. “You missed… Try… again.”

Castiel laughed again with relief as he leaned closer, maneuvering his way around the hands still pressed to Dean’s crown, and dropped a light kiss on Dean’s lips. Dean’s smile disrupted the motion, and Castiel’s lips landed partially on teeth instead. Dean didn’t appear to mind, for his heart thudded slowly and lazily in his chest.

“I’m so sorry... I never meant for you to... I love you, Cas... You’re everything.”

Castiel shook his head against Dean’s skin and leaned down again to leave another light kiss on his lips. This time, Dean puckered his, and there was a glorious moment of nostalgia as the taste of him erupted across Castiel’s tongue, and a magnificent and warm kind of comfort spread across his being – awashing him with joy to his fingertips and toes and making his hair stand on end.

Dean laughed again and closed his eyes momentarily, huffing out a small “mm” before he raised his gaze to Castiel’s.

“D-Did I get you out.?... Did I find the tomb?”

“You did, Dean. You found me.”

Dean grinned again and his eyelids fluttered shut once, before he opened them and they shone beneath Castiel.

“Told you that it was forever... bet you didn’t think I meant it... literally, huh?”

Castiel silenced his breathy laughter with another kiss and let his free hand trace down Dean’s cheek slowly. Dean leaned into it carefully and smiled up at Castiel, letting his teeth run across the bottom of his lip tiredly as he stared.

“Almost... forgotten how beautiful you are... God Cas...”

With his free hand he reached up and mimicked Castiel’s action, with a shaky jolted touch that shuddered across Castiel’s skin. For whatever reason, Dean was unaware of his body’s incompetence, and he held Castiel’s chin in a trembling hand, still smiling.

“Do I... Do I still look the same?”

Castiel huffed, and ran his thumb across Dean’s lips carefully. “Exactly. It’s eerie.”

Dean breathed a chuckle and laughed. “You’re... you’re lucky... Death told me that... that I was going to go back as a girl... M-my daughter... I don’t know if you would have liked that.”

“What?”

Dean smirked and puckered his lips, inviting Castiel to press another kiss to his for the informatoin – which he obliged – before murmuring sleepily. “Lydia... she lied... she was mine... little girl. Death said... her name was Emma... S’nice name.”

Castiel smiled tenderly as Dean’s eyes closed for another moment, before they shot open and his mood suddenly changed.

“Cas. The others. Did they-“

Castiel silenced him with a finger to his lips and a light trace to his cheek. The fear in Dean’s eyes scarcely quelled, and they searched around carefully. Castiel, quickly, dropped his mouth to Dean’s ear and whispered. “They are here too. But they do not remember. Not like you do. You must stay silent on this or you will injure them.”

When he pulled back, Dean was biting his lip. But he nodded with clear understanding, and his eyes shifted to the side as Castiel stepped away and brought Sam and Bobby into view. Jessica stood between them, eyes rimmed red and still running. Bobby was gruff and seemed unable to meet Dean’s eye, but Sam stared with a kind of recollection – sufficiently vague such that Castiel was sure he was safe for the time being.

Dean, tired as he was, was true to his promise and only stared politely at the gathered group, before breaking a soft smile.

“Hello.”

Jessica gulped out a cry, but smiled for Dean, who grinned back. Sam said nothing, but nodded in acknowledgement, and continued to stare at the floor.

“This is Mike, Jessica and Keith. They are archaeologists, from the University of Stanford.”

Dean smiled carefully, but his brow furrowed. “Arch-ee-o-lo-gist?”

Castiel leaned forward slowly and whispered in his ear: “They are all very successful and content. Your brother is revered for his knowledge.”

Dean flushed bright red with happiness as Castiel pulled away and turned his gaze back to the group.

“I-it’s nice to meet you. Uh-“

His eyes dropped down to where Sam’s hand hung around Jessica’s waist.

“Are you two... together?”

Jessica flushed and looked away, while Sam nodded with a nervously contained smile and met Dean’s eyes. Dean’s grin spread slow and wide across his face, in such an earnest and loving way that had Sam’s blushing embarrassedly too and looking away pointedly, tightening his grip around Jessica, who snuck a quick look before looking back to him with a small smile.

“You look... very lovely next to one another. I’m glad.”

Castiel nudged Dean’s arm lightly, who looked to him with only mild regret at having spoken so transparently, before he bit his lip and fumbled with his free hand to take hold of Castiel’s. His fingers held loosely, even though he seemed to intend that the grip should be tight, and they continued to stammer as he sought to anchor them between Castiel’s.

“You know a lot about... Cas and me?”

Jessica and Sam blushed furiously at that, and Bobby’s expression soured before he muttered: “too much, kid.” Jessica suppressed a giggle, and even Dean cracked a smile before he looked to Castiel nervously. “You share a bit too much, Cas?”

Castiel shrugged and pulled his hand tight around Dean’s to quake the tremor in his fingers. “I told them the truth, about how we met.”

Dean bit his lip and his eyes flickered to Castiel’s in an unrestrained flirtation. “Then you probably did.”

He let his head drop back on the pillow and kept his eyes fixed on Castiel’s. When the group made no sound to interrupt the moment, Dean grinned at Castiel and murmured: “C’mere,” before offering him a light kiss as a reward for his obliging him. When Castiel pulled away, Dean’s eyes were full and warm, and just slightly brimming with a sheen of tears.

“D’you know much about... what happened, after they hung me?”

Castiel flinched at Dean’s calm explanation of the act, and Dean attempted to tighten his hand around Castiel’s, eyebrows dropping suddenly with concern. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m still here. It doesn’t matter.” His eyes flickered back to the group as Sam shifted on his feet, and Bobby crossed his arms before him.

Castiel traced his thumb across Dean’s hand before he answered. “No... Gabriel explained a little.”

“What exactly?”

“Your deal with Death and... Lilith...”

Dean swallowed quickly and looked down to their entwined fingers, noticing for the first time the obvious tremor in his. He slowly extricated it from Castiel’s and held it before his face. “Guess this is to do with that, huh?”

“Yes.”

Dean clenched his fist together shakily, not quite managing the make the whole shape, before he pulled it apart, grimacing and let it drop back to Castiel’s hold. Castiel quickly took it and commenced massaging the quaking muscles, but Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked away in aggravation.

“What else did I mess up?”

Castiel shook his head and raised a hand to Dean’s cheek, cupping it softly. “Nothing. You did extremely well – more than anyone could have expected.”

“Lilith, did she-“

Castiel’s expression dropped, and when Dean looked to the side, he caught it and in Castiel’s hands, he tensed. “She succeeded?”

Castiel nodded slowly and looked away, holding tight around Dean’s hands. “She took... she took Ruby in your place. Alastair too. Then others. The Angels cannot control them – they created Hell.”

Dean swallowed carefully and lay his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Goddamnit. Ruby, that-“

He took his hand from Castiel’s and used it to shield his eyes from the bright light of the hospital, pinching around the bridge of his nose and grimacing. “C-Can we help her? Or-“

“She is beyond it, I think.”

Sam stiffened across the room and Jessica turned, concerned, and ran a soft hand down his side. There was a moment where Sam’s past seemed to flash before him, and Castiel was half-standing when his gaze returned to the room, and he looked down to Jessica, murmuring a quick soothing: “don’t worry, I’m alright.”

Castiel cautiously lowered himself to sit beside Dean once again and move a hand to sit above his heart on his chest, feeling the reassuring vibrations at his chest there.

Dean watched it, face less content than it had been upon first seeing Castiel, before looking to him and whispering: “why is Balthazar touching my head?”

Castiel’s gaze flickered to where the three Angels cradled the crown of Dean’s head, eyes closed around intense focus as their energy thrummed around his soul. Castiel’s eyes returned to meet Dean’s slowly, although Dean seemed calm as he stared at Castiel and awaited explanation.

“Dean, you know that... since you died in Ardus, you have lived a number of different lifetimes.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you... remember them now?”

Dean shook his head slowly and he swallowed lightly as he stared up at Castiel.

“Flashes. With Greg... that’s a bit clearer. But most... just parts.”

Castiel nodded quickly, and at his concerned expression, Dean reached up quickly and pulled his face close for a soft kiss. He held their lips together and waited until Castiel seemed calmed slightly, before pulling away and keeping their faces close, so that their noses were almost touching.

“It’s alright... I think I know, but... I want you to explain anyway.”

Castiel nodded quickly and pressed his lips together.

“When you made your deal with death, your soul fractured. Part of you – that part that made the deal stayed in stasis, in order that you might remember your goal and your arrangement. The other part... continued on and lived several more lifetimes.”

Dean nodded slowly. “I know, I... I followed my bloodline. I remember Death explaining.” He kissed Castiel once, more certain perhaps, of the impending outcome of the tale, and then lay back carefully in the pillows, ensuring he did not dislodge the hands that cradled him.

“Do you remember what happened... in the motel, before you ended up here?”

Dean paused for a moment and his expression grew strained. It seemed as though he were sifting through the recesses for an explanation, and he eventually struck on one, for when he looked back to Castiel, it was with renewed knowledge.

“You and... Greg...” Dean’s mouth flickered around a smile and he looked away. Castiel quickly moved to clutch at his hospital garb, eyes searching: “Dean. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand then – that you... you were him, and-“

Dean laughed once and his eyes moved back to Castiel’s, brimming slightly. “I’m not mad, Cas. Of course I’m not. How could I be?”

Castiel’s forehead creased as he looked down at Dean, who shook his head and reached up for another, more lingering kiss. When he pulled away, his expression was soft and tender, and understanding.

“Greg is... he’s me. I mean, a different me, but... well, I’d be offended if you didn’t like him. And if he looks just like me then... well, he’s a handsome man.” He chortled at his own joke and kissed Castiel soundly once more, with loose pliant lips and no indication that his words were falsities. “I’ve been... trying to get to you through him. Words and looks, here and there, when I could come forward. I was... I was afraid that you might not like him... I know that we’re... we’re one and the same now.”

He dropped his forehead so he rested against Castiel’s.

“It’s not as if... it’s not as if I haven’t... I followed my _bloodline_ , Cas. I mean... those other lives. I must’ve had children and... wives... or women at least. No, I did. I know I did. If you feel something for Greg, it’s far better than what... what I did to get back to you.”

Castiel swallowed and looked down at Dean, who flushed with an expression of shame and pulled away, laying down on the pillow and turning his face to look at Bobby, Sam and Jessica, whose eyes were all wide.

“Greg... he’s _me_ , Cas. Just a different part. And that means he’s been in love with you since the day he met you. He’d be a fool not to.”

Dean smiled softly, even as he turned away in embarrassment. “And if you care for him, then I’m glad. Because... otherwise it’d be like there were a part of me that you didn’t-“

Castiel reached for Dean’s face and turned him just slowly enough to ensure that the hands on the crown of his head were not disturbed, but fast enough that it was still a surprise to Dean as Castiel bore down on him with a sincere and overwhelmed kiss, lips open and heart pounding. Dean was happy to accept it, raising his shaking hands to Castiel’s cheeks and pulling him closer and tighter, and opening his mouth to deepen the intensity of the movement. Even with an audience, he wasn’t shy about letting a soft little moan into it, and reaching into Castiel’s mouth eagerly with his tongue. It was intense, and aggressive, and Castiel only ceased when Dean’s pleased huffs turned to noises of exertion and he pulled away breathless.

“Dean, I’m sorry, did I-“

Dean shook his head and grinned with spit-slick, shiny lips and closed his eyes in contentment. “I’m really good, Cas. Really really good. I love you.”

The declaration was soft and incidental, that spoke to the ardency it had been felt with since their last meeting – there was no need to infuse the declaration with anything more. They both knew the nature of things and were content with it. A soft, precious moment to reignite what had remained constant for so long. A blessing from their Father, and one that made every moment apart worth enduring.

When Castiel looked back up, the group had made a carefully silent departure from the room, although he could sense the way they hovered nervously beyond the door, awaiting his call should anything go wrong. Dean followed Castiel’s gaze and smiled as he turned back to run his eyes along Castiel’s face.

“So they really are good? They’re not... like me?”

Castiel shook his head. “Their souls are drained... but you spared them from reaping, so they are overwhelmed. I am sure there is a part of them that is the same as you – still in the fifteenth century. But it is more firmly buried. Gabriel is not so concerned.”

Dean sighed softly and ran a finger down the bridge of Castiel’s nose.

“Jess… Jessica? She’s good?”

Castiel smiled tenderly and pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “She is wonderful Dean. She is kind and bright and sincere. One of the brightest souls I have ever seen, excluding yours of course.”

Dean flicked at Castiel’s cheekbone with playfulness. “You’re a flirt.”

Castiel shook his head slowly and smiled at Dean, who chuckled and moved his thumb to trace under Castiel’s eye socket.

“So... you need to tell me the rest. After what happened in the motel.”

Castiel’s expression dropped and he paused momentarily to let his hand run down a tendon in Dean’s neck and tracing at his collarbone above the line of his hospital shirt.

“When... when I kissed Greg... you, when I kissed you... my Grace burst forth and... it must have tried to draw on that part of it that I left with you and restore itself... it brought you forwards too fast.”

Dean nodded. “I remember that... in the motel. I tried to talk to you, but you were... you were scared of me, Cas.”

“Your true face, Dean. It’s different now. I failed to realize it was you.”

Dean pursed his lips and looked away momentarily, before turning back to Castiel uncertainly. In the air, the scent changed at once to an adrenaline-fuelled nervousness as Dean’s heart rate increased.

“That... that bad?”

“Severely injured. I understand now though... you bore a task that no human soul ought to endure, over multiple lifetimes. It would leave a mark.”

Dean dropped a hand nervously to run across his face as though he could feel the mark Castiel spoke of, pinching at the skin. “Is it... still there?”

Castiel let Dean’s true face bleed into his vision for a moment, before allowing his features to absorb it back, and nodding slowly. “Yes.”

Dean grimaced and shut his eyes. “Not the most beautiful soul you’ve seen anymore then.”

Castiel reached forward and gripped Dean’s face tight between his hands.

“That doesn’t matter, Dean. Each mark you bear is a sign of your bravery and determination. I love you as ardently as I ever did. I promised you I would.”

Dean’s eyes flashed open, and he opened his mouth in a silent statement, before pulling Castiel forward into a soft kiss. “You’re too good to me, Cas.”

Castiel shook his head against Dean’s and let the tips of their noses brush against one another. “You distorted the order of the Universe to get to me. The honor of your company is too much for _me._ ”

Dean’s pained expression turned soft again and he kissed Castiel softly before releasing him, and returning to a lazy survey of his face, and reached up to twist the tendrils of Castiel’s hair in his juddering fingers.

“So... so I woke up. And then I went back under. Was Greg here?”

“Greg has been unconscious too, with you. Gabriel said you were in mental collapse. I believe that your mind could not bear the multitude of lives you had lived, and the trauma inflicted in them. It collapsed under the burden.”

“My mind is collapsed?”

Castiel moved his hand to cradle the side of Dean’s head.

“Gabriel says they can rebuild it, if they act quickly. You will be restored.”

Dean’s eyes only surveyed Castiel’s face for a moment, before he stated blandly. “There’s a catch though... isn’t there?”

Castiel let his thumb trace the outline of Dean’s temple softly. “It has to be Greg that they bring back... if they cut him off...they say that the soul will become stunted. You wouldn’t remain you.”

Dean nodded silently and let his hand fall from Castiel’s hair to clutch at his hand again.

“So what are they going to do to me?”

“Either... they can take you to Heaven now... or, they can merge your soul with... with the other part of it. If they did that, you would... it would be like going to sleep – you would live through Greg.”

Dean swallowed carefully.

“W-Would he remember?”

“Not at first. Not until he passed and he returned to Heaven. Then you would share the soul. He would remember everything.”

Dean paused and looked away from Castiel, down to his chest at Sam’s oversized T-shirt, traversing the shape of its logo. The trembling in his hands was growing stronger, which Dean noted, and folded his hands within Castiel’s who held them to slow the jittering.

“Dean, please try to stay calm. Keeping you awake like this is very precarious. We could do more damage to your soul if you become upset.”

Dean shut his eyes and nodded once, pursing his lips and breathing carefully in through his nose and out through his mouth. The jittering continued but his heart rate slowed, and his breathing became marginally more even. At the crown of his head, Gabriel shifted and then opened his eyes.

Castiel looked up, and Gabriel stared at him, before murmuring: “we need to get started soon, Cas. He’s getting weaker.”

Dean shifted slightly to try and turn his gaze up to Gabriel but didn’t succeed. Castiel stared for a moment, before looking back to Dean and whispering: “Gabriel is here. He can answer your questions. We need to make a decision soon. I’m sorry that we don’t have more time.”

Dean smiled sadly and squeezed Castiel’s fingers.

“S’not your fault. I got myself into this. Um...” he licked his lips and tried to raise his eyes to meet Gabriel’s again. Gabriel promptly responded by walking around and setting himself up in Dean’s eyeline and smiling sympathetically.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Dean Winchester.”

There was a pause, where a handshake might have been appropriate, had Dean not been clinging to Castiel’s hands as tightly as he was. At his feet, another tremble started lightly, so that the blanket covering him began to twitch with the movement.

“If... if I go back to Heaven now, Greg stays too right?”

“We might be able to remove him there. A separate heaven. But we would risk him in-”

Dean recoiled, almost wrenching himself from the touch of Anna and Balthazar, whose eyelids scrunched tight as they adjusted their hold.

“No. No! I don’t want to do that.”

“Dean-“

Gabriel reached forward, as though to offer further explanation, but Dean’s mind was firmly settled.

“No. No. You’re not. Jesus Christ, that’s... No, Cas. No, I’m not doing it.”

“We don’t have to.”

Gabriel stepped back, raising his hands carefully. “The other is to sew your souls back together. You would not have the same consciousness that you have now. You would become part of Greg’s experience, and whatever experience builds upon that.”

Dean grimaced and squeezed his fingers around Castiel’s hand. His ankles began to twist with his feet and the movements became larger beneath the blanket, twisting it from its pristine shape.

“That’s... that’s the normal order of things, right? “

“Souls aren’t meant to be reincarnated, Dean.”

“Yes, but... if they were. That’s how it would work. Greg is still _me_ , right?”

Gabriel bit his lip and stared at Castiel. “The metaphysics of that are intricately confusing. There’s not necessarily an answer – how minute a change one might make to render you a different person is a question which confounds even Angels. Human beings are so intricate.”

Dean paused for a moment, considering. “I’m not leaving Sam.”

Castiel held Dean’s hand tight and said no more, knowing then that his resolve was determined, as it had been the first time, even if Gabriel stared at Dean momentarily and continued comfortingly: “it would only be a matter of years. Approximately 50 and you would be-“

“You’re asking me to... to take Greg away from Cas. I’m not doing it. Cas, he loves you. I love you. You... you love him? You care about him?”

“I love you.”

“Then you love him. Greg is what freed you from the tomb, Cas. He’s me, but... if we left him we would be betraying him. And if you could abandon him... Cas you’d be abandoning _me_. The thought of him dying and my getting to have you... it hurts. It hurts like losing you all over again. I’m not going to hurt anyone. Not anymore. I hurt enough.”

He pulled Castiel down and around him in a tight hug, squeezing his shoulders. Beneath him, Castiel felt his whole body begin to shake.

“Greg is what I am now. If you love me, you love him. When we get back to heaven, he’ll remember and... it’ll all be as it was. Alright? You have to do this. Please.”

He pulled Castiel’s face to his and pressed firm kisses across every part of it – his nose, his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids. “I love you. Cas. I love you.”

Castiel kissed Dean hard and deep until he had nothing left. His mouth and lips ached with it – of feeling Dean part beneath him after so long, and accept him into him, with joy and elation. In between every press of lips there was a murmured _I love you_ , a frantic promise and a gaping farewell. His entire body stirred with it – that desperation to keep that Dean close – that part of him so proximate to every part of Castiel’s story. That part that hadn’t grown without him, and endured without him. That wasn’t scarred and aching and hurt.

But every scar that Greg bore now was a mark of Dean’s love for him. Every gash and wound a symbol of how he had triumphed for Castiel. Greg was Dean, even if this Dean had no memory of him. The Dean that had given up everything for him, and had skewed the laws of physics and God to return. Dean was right that Greg deserved more, because he was Dean and Dean deserved more. Dean deserved Castiel’s love regardless of who he had become in waiting, or how that time and passage had deformed him. Every part of him far exceeded whatever Castiel had to offer him and was a gift, regardless.

The Righteous Man.

And Castiel’s, through and through. After centuries and lovers and children and death and destruction. He still held true and fought for him. And in the crucial moment, when Castiel had finally returned to him, had held back for so long for fear that he wasn’t Dean and did not deserve Castiel.

Beneath him, Dean’s entire body started to shake.

“Cas. Cas. It’s time. They have to do it. It’ll be fine. I know it will. Greg and I – we’ve talked. We’ll work it out.”

Dean pulled back even as Castiel held tighter in attempt to restrain him, and placed both his hands on Castiel’s cheeks. “I love you, Cas. More than anything. I’ll be waiting for you. Just like going to sleep.”

He let Gabriel place a hand on the crown of his head, and sighed as power began to radiate through his skin and cease the trembling.

“When Greg is back, I want you to... I want you to love him as hard as you love me. I want you to tell him and hold him and kiss him. And bed him. Do you understand, Cas? Love him so hard that I can feel it too. I’ll know it’s for me as well as him. It’s for both of us, because we’re both...” he faltered, “I love you.”

Castiel nodded, feeling a few tears brim in his eyelids as Dean began to breathe slow and even around the twist of Grace feeding into his soul.

“Dean, I need you to relax. We’ll see you in Heaven.”

“See you soon, Cas.” Dean murmured around the words sleepily, tracing Castiel’s cheeks as his jittering slowly lessened. “Good night.”

It wasn’t a goodbye, so assuredly and confidently Dean that Castiel couldn’t restrain himself from placing one last kiss on Dean’s lips as he fell under. “S’nice,” Dean murmured quietly. “Mm.”

He fell back into unconsciousness with a whisper and Castiel only gave a single cry into his chest. Gabriel quickly closed his eyes again, and beneath Dean’s skin, Castiel could feel the group set to work, cradling Dean’s soul tight and bringing it to Greg’s – coaxing them together. Castiel reached out with a tendril of Grace of his own to caress around Dean’s soul once, giving it a kiss of encouragement, which Dean’s soul returned with a hum of satisfaction. In a moment, it was over. Greg’s soul reached out to Dean’s and they embraced as family. Around them, Castiel’s Grace shared twisted easily, plaiting them together.

In a moment, the seams were rebuilt and it was as if they had never been apart. There were still injuries across its surface, but somehow it seemed that the unity erased parts. Dean’s sweet and earnest optimism bled across to Greg’s hardened parts, and soothed them, joining and knitting to create a fresh new surface beneath the scabs of the old endurances. Castiel watched in fascination as around the soul, parts fell off as though they were diseased remnants, and the thing polished itself anew.

There were holes still, and grazes. But even beaten, Dean and Greg’s soul shone so brightly that even Castiel was forced to withdraw for a moment at the Grace of it. As he did so, the soul reached out with a tiny tendril and pressed its tip against him for a moment.

In that second, he was awash with singing and harmony and thankfulness, and the sensation of wholeness. In it, he felt both Dean and Greg rejoice, and assure him with finality that love remained.

As he came back to the hospital, he was aware that Jessica, Sam and Bobby had entered the room at his cry. Sam seemed tearful, and Jessica was having a difficult time placating him as he clutched at one of Greg’s hands tightly and ran his hand across his forehead.

Castiel kept careful watch against the stirring of his soul upon his true face, but there was no mark. Jessica’s soul held tight and kept him grounded and secure. It was only within a part of him – that part merged with the rest, as Dean’s now was – that let a small mourning at worry and sadness for his brother and the purse part of himself had been lost.

Barachiel and Anael withdrew slowly and moved to stand behind Castiel at the hospital bed, while Gabriel remained behind Sam and Jessica – the former who was choking on tears - and there was a flicker of sadness in his eyes as he reached out and rested his hand against Sam’s shoulder.

When Castiel looked to him, he inclined his head to Sam’s shoulder and mouthed _Guardian Angel_ before he sent a small shock of calming grace through Sam’s system. Sam stuttered once, and then moved to let Jessica hold him tightly. She rubbed soothing circles into his back and kissed his temple, while they nervously awaited Greg’s awakening.

It took only minutes before he stirred. He moved slowly, as though he had a headache, and raised his hand to his forehead, blocking out the light. Castiel turned off the lights of the hospital room without a second thought, or movement from his chair, and dropped the blinds of the window. The sound caused Greg to open his eyes curiously, and peer through them to where Castiel still held his hand tightly.

“Cas?”

Castiel leaned forward quickly and over his face, searching anxiously for a sign that there might have been an unnoticed failure in the merging. There was none, and Greg’s eyes sparkled with a life that had not been there previously when Castiel had looked into them as he stared up at Castiel above him.

“Hey,” he murmured weakly, not showing any embarrassment as his hold tightened around Castiel’s hand at his side, and he brazenly stroked a finger across the back of it. A moment later, he looked downwards, with a confused expression, and his eyes narrowed, before he looked up to Castiel and blushed.

“You’re... holding my hand.”

Castiel’s expression twitched into a smile and he held firm around Greg. “I was worried about you. Would you like me to stop?”

Greg thought for a moment, and a flash of something ran past his eyes again. He stared at Castiel, confused, before he flushed again and whispered almost incredulously. “No.”

Castiel grinned and moved to the side, perching himself on the edge of Greg’s bed and leaning forwards.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Greg’s brow furrowed and he seemed to retreat into himself for a moment as he searched for the memory. “I think... we were in the motel? You were apologizing for something. And I... no, that was a dream, I think.”

“What do you think happened?”

Greg looked back to Castiel with a burning blush on his cheeks such that his face seemed alight with something. “We hugged, and then... I... I kissed you.”

Jessica huffed out an incredulous breath. Greg was hardly distracted as he looked at Castiel nervously. “Did that happen? I-“

“It did. I kissed you in return.”

Greg flushed even deeper, until he was almost purple and looked away, biting his lip.

“But, um...”

Castiel mimicked Greg’s hold of his hand previously by brushing his thumb across the tendons at its back and Greg’s eyes flashed back to Castiel’s immediately. A flicker of amusement ran across them that failed to accord with Greg’s own mildly horrified expression.

“What? You mean-“

“When you are well… we can… we can discuss it, Greg. It… it was a good moment for me. I do not regret it.”

The blood drained from Greg’s face, and he smiled brightly and with such relief that Castiel saw Dean’s reassurance written there plainly.

“I... I would… yeah, we should talk about...”

Greg’s brow furrowed and he looked away from Castiel for a moment, pursing his lips in thought. Finally, he looked back, but not before throwing a quick glance towards Jessica and Sam. “I-I... this may sound weird but... I know.”

“You know what?”

Greg’s eyes closed to slits for a moment as he thought deeply again, and he seemed to recoil inside himself momentarily.

“Who... who I am. And what just happened.”

He looked at Castiel uncertainly.

“I know that I’m not allowed to know the whole story yet, and... it’s to do with Dean. And that I’m allowed to, um, _have you_. It’s ok, because... I’m...?”

He looked up questioningly to Castiel, and then to Gabriel who stepped back.

“What?”

“Th-that’s all I know. I’m not supposed to know anymore. I mean, there’s a few more things, but...” he blushed again, “they’re kinda _inappropriate_. I’m not gonna...” He blushed even more furiously and looked away.

Gabriel stepped forward quickly and searched Greg’s face tightly, for an inclination of disaster. “How are you feeling? Are you well?”

Greg nodded quickly. “Yeah. I mean... headache the size of Texas, but otherwise... God, um... Cas, it feels fucking amazing to be holding your hand.” He bit his lip quickly and looked away, blush deepening again across his cheeks. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that... it’s like I’m not even-“

He looked up at Castiel, suddenly clear for a moment, and stated carefully: “I’m ok. This is how it’s meant to be. Everything is going to work out.” Greg blinked twice as he finished the last word, and his gaze flickered down as if he could appraise his own mouth, before he stuttered: “Sorry, I... I’m not sure.”

Gabriel quickly took Greg’s face in his hands, and closed his eyes in intense concentration as he delved back into Greg’s mind. The searched quickly, and Anna hurried over to join him, working on Greg’s other side. The entirety of the time, Greg’s eyes strayed over Castiel’s face nervously, flashing away when Castiel met his eyes, and face flushing at being caught. Sam and Jessica inched closer to the bed, looking worriedly to Castiel who merely stared back blankly, but with a rising elation at the conclusion that was forming.

Eventually, Gabriel pulled back with a smirk.

“I’ll tell you what, brother. Your Righteous Man isn’t much one for playing by the rules.”

“Is he-“

“Right here with you, keeping tabs on this one. He’s pleased with himself, I can tell you.”

Greg smirked once, before the expression dropped. His eye winked in a stuttered attempt – somehow not managing the gesture properly, and then Greg’s face fell back into its proper expression.

“Going to stop playing now,” he muttered to himself, before looking up at Castiel, cheeks heated but eyes earnestly nervous.

“You’re staying, Cas? In the motel, you said you would, but-“

Castiel interrupted Greg with a squeeze to his hand in one hand, and a squeeze to his shoulder in the other. “If you’ll have me Greg, I would stay with you as long as you are willing.”

Greg flushed bright red, and Jessica covered her mouth with her hands as she suppressed a delighted squeak. Sam grinned and pulled her close against his chest, rolling his eyes at the way her eyes brimmed with tears and wiping one away himself. Across from them, Bobby turned to face the corner and raised his hand to his eyes for a few seconds, before turning back to them and grimacing.

“Alright. Alright. Between you two and you two,” he gestured between the pairs with irritation, “I’ve had just about enough of this romance business. When _you_ -“ he pointed to Greg accusingly, “are better, we have two perfectly good motel rooms. You can both put them to use. In the meantime, respect your elders and quit with the lovebirding.”

Jessica snorted and Greg bit his lip, looking to Castiel once, before untangling their hands and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. Castiel bemoaned the loss, but a reassuring smile from Greg made it clear that it would not be for long. And, as promised, when Bobby left to locate the group an evening meal – with Greg insisting that he bring back “cheeseburgers” for Castiel to try – he took Castiel’s hand once again, and entwined their fingers together tightly. When Castiel leaned close, he became overcome with nerves, and stared determinedly at his own lap, only releasing his breath when Castiel merely pressed their temples together and murmured softly: “I am glad you are back.”

Greg inhaled slowly and contentedly, and ran his thumb up and down Castiel’s index finger, before murmuring. “Me too, Cas.”

...

They discharged Greg a few days later, after careful monitoring to ensure that he bore no further marker of the unconsciousness. He might have waited longer, but for the fact that Barachiel appeared on the third day, and made some adjustments to his medical records and to the doctors’ memories that raised no suspicions about his unconsciousness. On their way out of the hospital, he hugged Castiel tightly and saluted him. “I am so proud of you, brother.”

Castiel accepted the hug graciously, and paused Barachiel when he tried to bow before him. “There is no need.”

Barachiel shook his head, and swooped the bow anyway, raising with wide and slightly watery eyes. “You saved us, brother. And you cared for the humans as they ought to have always been cared for. I know that now.”

“Lydia-“

“Safely installed in heaven. With Emma and baby Samuel.”

“Sam-“

Barachiel smiled brightly.

“She raised him, after they escaped to the forest. She and Sam rode for another region – miles north of Ardus and they found a home there on a small farm. She took Samuel as her own and raised Dean’s Emma – beautifully, I might add. She and Sam were the best of friends, but never lovers, and they took care of one another until their dying day.”

Castiel smiled softly, although there was a sadness in it, appraising Barachiel’s sense of wistfulness.

“Did you visit her?”

Barachiel looked down, eyes heavy with regret.

“Not... not in life. I made sure her child was never ill or in danger, and I helped her when she passed. I made sure there was no pain. She deserved better than I.”

Castiel nodded but said no more of it, ignoring the fact that Barachiel’s expression betrayed there had been more that he did not care to express.

“The City? What happened to-“

Barachiel smiled wider at that. “It recovered well. Very well. For a time, Azazel was installed as leader. But eventually the citizens installed democracy and he was outvoted for leadership.”

“By whom?”

Barachiel winked and raised an eyebrow.”

“The leader of Rehin – Jody Mills. She opened the Roads once the Angels had departed and trade flowed free. It was a bountiful era for the cities. With Bobby beside her, they ran well.”

Barachiel smirked as he saw Castiel’s eyebrows raise. “Yes, a past dalliance that reignited once they were returned to the same City. They ruled together for fifteen years before he passed, and she continued on another fourteen. Leadership passed to the child of Garth Fitzgerald and Jo Harvelle upon her death. A girl named Dorothy. She did well for the City too.”

Castiel nodded slowly and let a small smile spread across his face, which Barachiel watched with satisfaction. “In the end, they were well. Despite what harm they were left to deal with. Our Father did create such a wonderful specimen, brother. That it could triumph over such ills.”

Barachiel stepped backwards and nodded once. “I have some duties to attend to in Heaven, but I will visit you when you are installed. Pray when you are amenable, and I will oblige you.” He winked once and cast a look to Greg, who stood beside Castiel and watched with a blithe kind of curiosity.

“Get the honeymoon out of your system first.”

Both Greg and Castiel spluttered a protest before Barachiel disappeared in a rush of air, brazenly in the centre of the hospital parking lot without concern. Castiel arched an eyebrow as he looked to the Heavens, eyes searching.

“Bit of a dick, isn’t he?” Greg joked lightly, before leaning back against Castiel’s arm lightly.

“He is a good Angel and a good man. But,” Castiel conceded with a knowing look to Greg, “I imagine that Jesus Christ will have his work cut out for him.”

Jessica chattered excitedly on their way back to the motel of the plans she had made once their investigation was complete. Castiel was to return with them to Stanford, where Jessica had sourced a house for him. She had located it on the internet, she explained, and two days later had received an email advising her that the property had been transferred to her name. An enquiry had produced the completed legal documents, signed by her despite her lack of knowledge of it. There was no explanation, although she suspected the clear one. At that, across the network of Angelic voices that ran through Castiel’s mind, he heard Gabriel click his tongue with amusement.

She and Sam were to take an additional room in it – not permanently – but to ease Castiel into a new life in a foreign city. There was no mention of what Greg might do there, but it seemed the intimation was that there was a room for him too, though none expected him to use it.

Greg seemed not at all perturbed by the certainty with which Jessica spoke, and he alternated between staring happily and idly between Sam and Jessica, Bobby and Castiel himself. In the back seat of the car, he kept his fingers tightly wound around Castiel’s hand and squeezed them at certain words and phrases that he found pleasing. There were moments where Castiel wondered if Dean was behind a few, for at times, Greg seemed to flush at some of the spasms, but for the most part, Dean behaved himself as Greg had said, and stayed unheard in the recesses of his mind.

When they arrived at the motel, Jessica and Sam made a quick exit to “their” room to “tidy Keith’s mess”, while Bobby was much less gracious with a “keep it down, both of you” as he made his way to his own room. Sam flushed, and looked to Jessica nervously, who responded with a raised eyebrow and an indignant expression, and Greg let go of Castiel’s hand momentarily to look embarrassedly at the ground.

That embarrassment continued when they returned to the motel room alone, standing awkwardly apart and moving softly so as not to disturb Bobby in the next room. The place was the same as it had been the night they had left. The blanket was still draped across the couch, and Greg’s laptop was still set up on the table – left open from the last film that he or Castiel had been watching. When they investigated the bedroom, the carnage Castiel had left behind when his Grace exploded was still laid bare, though mercifully not having been brought to the attention of the motel owner, who Greg declared would have been “pissed”.

Greg was floored when Castiel corrected the room with a mere glance, and left the room flushing and hurried to the kitchen, insisting he would prepare them a snack.

Castiel let him his nervous time as he assembled a paltry collection of dishes – being those items which had not expired in their time at the hospital. For Castiel, it was an unfamiliar collection of food items – “not as good as cheeseburgers,” Greg explained mournfully, as he sat down – potato crisps, twizlers and water directly from the tap that tasted of iron and unfamiliar chemicals.

Greg caught Castiel’s gaze for only a moment before he looked away nervously and reached over to fiddle with his laptop. He chattered vacantly about his remaining selection of films, suggesting that he could commission Sam to help him “stream something” if he had nothing else of interest. He only ceased when Castiel quietly laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him backwards to face him, eyes clear and careful.

“Greg, there is no need to be nervous around me.”

Greg blushed and licked his lips, before his eyebrows raised and he looked away quickly, stammering: “I-I’m not.”

Castiel paused for a moment, letting his hand slowly drop to Greg’s and taking it easily, winding his fingers into the position they had found comfort in the past days and smiling softly.

“Were you upset by Mike’s comment in the parking lot?”

Greg scratched at the back of his neck, anxiously, in a way that made it clear he was lying, as he looked away and murmured: “no,” in a way that clearly betrayed the falsity of the statement.

Castiel sighed quietly and met Greg’s eyes sincerely.

“Greg, I have no expectations of you. And if you would wish me away, I would let you-“

“No! No! Shit, Cas, I didn’t-“

“You have not given me that impression. But I want you to know that you may.”

Greg froze and looked down at their entwined hands, finding it difficult to swallow. He was shaking with nerves when he looked back to Castiel.

“Cas, I know that this.... _could be_ goin’ somewhere. And I... I _really really_ want it to. But... I don’t want to mess it up, and I don’t want to take it fast.”

Castiel nodded at the explanation, and let Greg a few moments to collect to his breath.

“It just... it feels like this is building to something _really_ big. Like, life-changing. And I’m... finding it hard to believe. That... you and I... that you...”

Castiel silenced him with a nudge to his shoulder and a soft stare.

“I care about you deeply, Greg.”

Greg’s breath wheezed out in an anxious way as his eyes flickered down to Castiel’s lips and back up, before he murmured. “But...”

Castiel leaned closer, cautiously, so as not to have his intentions to be misleading. “I can show you, or tell you, if either is more reassuring to you. You need only ask.”

Greg’s eyes flickered down to Castiel’s lips again and hovered there for a long moment, before he impulsively licked his own and looked up to Castiel, swallowing cautiously. “You would... show me?”

Castiel nodded once and searched Greg’s face for an expression of assent. That assent came in Greg’s tightening his hand roughly around Castiel’s and breathing out deeply, before breathing out a _yes_ against Castiel’s skin and meeting his eyes as Castiel leaned closer and met his lips with his own.

It was not the first kiss, but the first had otherwise been so eclipsed, that this felt as if it were. A nervous, fumbling thing that was scarcely more of a press than anything else. But the merest touch set Greg’s body to a trembling and his heart to a stutter.

Castiel pulled away quickly, eyes rushing up and down Greg’s body as he searched for an explanation. “Greg, are you well?”

Greg’s eyes flew open and his skin colored. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m... Oh _Cas_.”

He reached forward again without reservation and used his free hand to cradle Castiel’s face close to his. Their lips met in a flurry – Greg tasted of lime, mint and aged wine, with undercurrents of those tastes that Castiel already knew  from Dean. His lips were softer, better treated somehow, and his skin was smoother to the touch too, as it twisted and stretched to allow his mouth to open and to taste more of Castiel. For all the passion in it, it was tender and sweet too, and Greg was at ease with expressing the tiniest hint of emotion for Castiel’s awaiting ears – soft groans and tight whispers of thanks for the moment, and at his chest his heart thudded erratically with each sweep of Castiel’s skin across his face. When Castiel did pull back, if only in the hope that Greg’s heartbeat might even out slightly, Greg was utterly splendid to behold – eyes alight with a dreaming kind of elation, and absolutely fixated on every part of Castiel with an expression of disbelief.

“Cas. Oh my God.”

Castiel breathed out carefully and placed a careful kiss on Greg’s cheek, before pulling back and breathing heavily himself, letting his hand descend down Greg’s neck and resting on his shoulder. At their laps, their fingers were still entangled, squeezing tightly and shaking with the exertion of such a strong expulsion of emotion.

“Are you alright, Greg? Is that... are you comfortable with this?”

Greg huffed laugh against Castiel’s skin and leaned close to press their temples together, _lovingly_ , even though the words were not yet there.

“God, yes. Jesus, Cas, I feel like my soul just exploded.”

His eyes flickered quickly up to Castiel’s, and he withdrew, licking his lips nervously.

“Is that too much to say? I mean, I said slow but that kinda just...”

Castiel shook his head. “Not at all. However you want this, I am happy, Greg. I am happy with you.”

Greg’s worry softened into a smile, and he leaned close again, teasing his lips just millimeters away from Castiel’s, before brushing a light kiss across them. “I’m happy with you too, Cas. I really am.”

Castiel blushed himself as Greg withdrew and leaned forward to busy himself with the laptop. He located a film which he had not shown to Castiel yet “Godzilla vs Mothra”, and settled back, leaning into Castiel without a second thought and allowing him to wrap an arm tightly around him as he pulled the blanket upwards to cover them. As the opening credits flickered across the screen, Greg looked back to Castiel once and smiled earnestly, and for a flash of a moment, Castiel saw a foreign expression flicker across his face – Dean’s awed expression as they had sat beneath the stars, and Castiel had declared the moment between them to be the best he had ever seen in creation. In a second, it was gone, and Greg merely blushed before settling back to watch the film, but it was enough for Castiel to know for certain, in combination with what he had seen at the hospital, that Dean was alive and well, and endorsed his future with Greg. Now and in Heaven, where he would await him still – just as promised.


	36. Epilogue

** Epilogue **

** The Gospel of Castiel and the Righteous Man **

When the Angels fell from Heaven, their Father did forsake them. In delirious pain at their banishment, and suckered by the tongues of the befouled, they did forsake him too, falling to animal ruin and despair.

On the twisting roads of the earthly realm, they laid siege to humanity with sharp claws and angry mouths, destroying what once they had esteemed beyond measure – what their Father had proclaimed to be the greatest good.

God, for all that he had created, missed the sign of darkness that encroached. He saw not how illness spread through his children until they were lost to him, and he found himself abandoned with naught but one last standing child – of utmost tenacity. Castiel – the Angel of Thursday – was no longer loyal to him, for he too was forsaken to ruin. But to love, he was loyal, and in the City of Ardus, which housed the maker of ruin, he found its bastion.

In the murky shadows and contained, rumbling quiet of Ardus’ forest, Castiel and the Righteous Man Dean Winchester breached the boundaries of their relative humanity and divinity, discerning first friendship and then more, beneath the starry skies of their Father’s creation.

Said Castiel to his beloved: “Before my Father, wherever he is, but more importantly before you I promise I would have given my life to you, and I would have kept the faith with you. I will never stop loving you.” And as he bestowed upon him a token of his affection, Dean replied: “I swear before God that I’d have done anything for you, Cas. And what I am doing, it’s all for you – to keep you safe. I would have loved you till I die. I _will_. I will.”

It was in unity that Castiel met his undoing, at the hands of a blade wielded by a human hand in the streets of Ardus, as his brothers and sisters laid siege to the kingdom. He died with his eyes to the sky and the name of the Righteous Man on his lips, that he could live aside with his brother and benefit from the realm of his Father’s wonderful creation.

Within the tomb where he was thrown, Castiel awoke with renewed Grace, by divine miracle. Where his brothers and sisters had failed, it was he that had truly loved humanity to its core, and sacrificed all to spare it from suffering, even when his Father promised that in any event. In such purity and such devotion, the plight of his brothers and sisters was broken, and the fall of Lucifer was redeemed, and across the earth, his brothers and sisters arose to the heavenly realm. Imbued with knowledge of his sacrifice, and his model of divinity, they were renewed and awashed of their sins, and in a chorus of repentance, spread goodness throughout the world.

Castiel was granted the life of the human, despite the deal he had made in distortion of nature to return to his lover, in exchange for his Father’s life. To Death his Father willingly went, as reprieve for his mistakes, and with a word to his sons: “love better than I have loved you, now and always”.

Dean Winchester endured until his hair was grey and his body destroyed, and when he fell upon the Earth, Castiel returned him to Heaven on a steed of light. In the throne room of Heaven’s halls, two  thrones were erected to the side of Jesus Christ for Heaven to bear witness to the Holy Ghost and the Righteous Man. But the Righteous Man, of modesty and courage, stepped back from his place and recoiled from leadership.

“I can’t lead, I can’t Cas!” he proclaimed, with force and certainty, “I’m just a man!” Castiel did comfort him and allow him to refrain, and installed him in a most worthy heaven to befit his needs – alongside those souls that had borne his sacrifice with him, in everlasting contentment. Before Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost plead to be installed with him, and was granted his salvation. And so, before Heaven, the Gospel was sealed, as Castiel – Angel of Thursday – did forsake glory for a human and so showed his brothers and sisters how his Father’s message endured.

And at that, the Angels did rejoice, and sing of his message throughout the world. Their hymns, even in the denizens of Lucifer’s darkness, brought joy and light. And while, in Heaven, their maker did rest with contentment, his word was spread and it was good.

 

 

 

 

**AN: I had to include this here as this was simply no place in the notes to house the enormity of thanks I have to give. I am utterly devastated that this fic is finished.**

**I started writing this story at a new chapter of my life. I was writing my dissertation, I had finished University, and I embarked on adulthood. Things weren’t quite fitting then, and every day, after hours of dreary legal textbooks and poring over a 20,000 word document that would make a dullard weep tears of boredom, I would sit down and plot this out in a little notebook, never really imagining it would turn into anything. Then adulthood came and hit like a brick wall, and I encountered the mess of broken promises that will define the experience of our generation. I plotted out more, because I was so desperate for something to look forward to. Still, even when I had a timeline in place and an ending to write to, I scarcely even bothered to put pen to paper for any substantial writing. The first chapter, even, was almost more of an attempt to get this story out of my system. To remind myself that I couldn’t write, and the endeavour was  a foolhardy one. I imagined I would abandon it a few chapters in, and lose the documents in a mass of files on my computer.**

**The sole reason that this fic is finished is the overwhelmingly generous and dedicated support I have received from my readers. I whinge a lot in my notes – it’s my thing, these days – so I am utterly certain you are all tired of reading this, and wince at each turn of the cliché. But truly, your words have meant so much more to me than a writer’s delight at having their story receive an audience. Even better, a positive one. That has mattered a great deal too. I’m inspired now. I want to practise this. Every day I can’t work at these words due to extraneous commitments, I curse the meagre supply of time that I have to work with. I _love doing this,_ because of you all. You’ve made me feel like I could, and that’s opened the floodgates. I’ve been telling stories since I was four years old. But I have _never_ written one down, or told it to completion.**

**But more than that, I have been dulled by so many things about my life the last year. I’m told that I’ve grown tireder and crueller and that I’m becoming foreign to people I care about. Reading your reviews, and watching the hits and kudos to this story climb, has been a shard of sanity in what has otherwise been a life overhaul. I had hoped by the time this story was finished that I would have escaped my current circumstance. I haven’t yet, but I’m working on it. And having your encouragement in this story has given me courage in other endeavours.**

**I hope by the time I have another story for you all, I can spin a better narrative for my life too.**

**But, that’s heavy stuff, and I have much to be grateful for. There are so many particular thanks to give, and they are listed below. If you have left any kind of comment on this fic, even just the one, I have written to you below. Please accept my most sincere thanks. If, somehow, I didn’t offer personal thanks, please know that I am just as grateful for your following me to the completion of this project. Every viewer, commenter, kudos-er or otherwise has been part of this experience for me. I love you all.**

**My next project, I hope, will be part of the DeanCas Big Bang. Regardless, it will be uploaded here some time soon.**

**Otherwise, if you want to keep up generally with what I’m writing, please follow me on tumblr at overlord-of-the-bees.tumblr.com. I follow everyone back, and I adore new friends!**

**I also have a separate blog, in which I navigate my way through an existential crisis/sometimes get a little drunk and write bad philosophy. You can find that at contemplatetheletterm.tumblr.com. Particular highlights include sarcastic jibes at the lawyer life, feeble attempts at poetry and rants about stupid boys. Also, there are depressing quotes. Since I never went through an emo phase as a 14 year old, I’ve decided to revert and do it now. Don’t judge me.**

**Thank you all, once again.I cannot believe this is my final sign off for this story.**

**Love and admiration to you all, with sincerest thanks,**

**-Liffe**

** On AO3 (in order of the earliest chapter you reviewed on) **

**ALICE! I know you are lurking here. Obviously I will talk to you about this, but thank you so much for your support, my dear! Who knew that 8am law tutorials would lead to you reading my Destiel fanfic and AHBL adventures? It might have been one of the most fortuitous things that has ever happened to me, and I am so privileged to call you my friend now.**

**Ashitanoyuki, I don’t know if you are still with this story, but you are my first review on A03. I wouldn’t have completed this fic without you. As I have already said, how did such a well-regarded writer come by my work? I can’t comprehend it.**

**LucifersHitman, thank you for your sweet reviews. Your kindness is remarkable!**

**CasIsMyPie, my inbox has been bursting with your kindness recently. I am utterly overwhelmed. As I have already said, the fact that you have reviewed, like, _every freaking chapter_ , is incredible! You are so sweet, and I love the witticisms in your comments. You make me smile a lot these days ** **J**

**Pyro42x, you have my utter gratitude for your comments. Even if I twitch with jealousy every time I see your glorious profile picture!**

**Caron, for your enthusiastic review so early in the piece. You are so wonderful to have taken a chance on such a new work. I know how easy it is to  see a fic that’s scarcely off the ground and ignore it. You are so generous for taking the time to read.**

**Artemis, thank you for your review. I can’t believe you kept up chapter by chapter. I certainly lack the patience for that. You are majestic!**

**Nirame, you were the first person to rec me! I know this because it is actually a formative moment in my life. I have a bucket list. Getting recc’d was one of my dreamy-dream items (as in, Charlotte, you hilarious creature, good luck with that). I am so so honoured by your kind review of this story, and it is now forever enshrined in my jar of happy things and bucket list scrapbook.**

**Chaostheorem, you know how much I love _When Life Rains Roses_. I am still holding out for more, and I will most certainly hold you to your promise to supply it. Your reviews have been so kind, and I am so grateful. Also, how had I not see _Spiral Turn_** **yet? As a ballroom and latin competitor myself, this is only my dream incarnate! *becomes distracted from illustrious thank you list and rushes to read/squee***

**Liz, your reviews have been so immensely dedicated. I cannot believe your kindness – the volume alone is immense! As I stated before, this past year has been really hard, and this story and its reviews have been lifelines. In these past two weeks, things have become supremely worse. Waking up in the mornings and reading a choca-block inbox of your reviews has been a real light. Thank you so much. I’ve got your fics open in some tabs, and I’ll most definitely be reading them soon. Don’t despair if I don’t actually get there for a few weeks. It just means the corporate machine has me in its strangehold.**

**SoHoldMeTight, who must certainly be my most dedicated reviewer. Your mini-essays on this fic have been mind-boggling. You know this already.  I swear, you must have written a small fic yourself in all the words you have used. I honestly don’t know how I can repay your kindness. I don’t have the words. I just stare at my computer screen and flail pointlessly. I will literally never be able to repay you, my dear. But you have my friendship – I hope that’s something** **J** **I have loved talking with you, and I look forward to doing so in the future, particularly in relation to _Break Me Out_. Thank you so much.**

**Jade_maiden_33, thank you so much for your reviews! I’m so glad you took the chance on this story. Your words were so kind. Also, I am still incredulous that you appreciated my chapter titling poetry! I hope this has the happy ending you were hoping for. I am indebted to you** **J**

**Lila, your review was one of the sweetest I received, and I’ve cherished it. I hope you got some sleep post your marathoning efforts. It was an utter pleasure to receive your review.**

**Sykurri, thank you so much for your review. I actually have this strangely vivid memory of reading it, where I was sitting, and how I was feeling. Obviously that means it made an impact! You are so wonderful, and thank you so much!**

**Saph, thank you so much for your review. In reading through comments, I clicked in your profile and noted (despairingly late) that there are now a massive number of new chapters to your fic _Broken Halos and Bloody Crowns_. In corporate nightmare, I had quite lost track of the fics I had been reading and enjoying (yes, I have only just understood and begun to use the bookmark function). Your new fic also looks fascinating – I love some good alpha/omega dynamics. I’m in! Your comments meant a lot to me, because I think you are really talented. Looking forward to repaying the favour on your fics.**

**Cocomademoiselle, thank you so much for reviewing this story! I am so grateful. Honestly, I can’t describe it.**

**Jazzy2may, your review was so sweet (and utterly too kind). I have all the hugs for you. Allll the hugs!**

**WinJennster, oh my gosh, where do I start with you? My heart honest to goodness dropped when I realized that you, the author of _Cooking with Gas_ had read and recc’d my story. For a moment, I genuinely contemplated the possibility that I had unconsciously sold Crowley my soul, and that was my reward. Seriously, that is how much I admire your work. I am certain a solid majority of my readers happened upon this story because of your rec. I am so grateful to you. Congratulations on finishing Painted Angels (yet another delight to add to my personal favs list, which is still very restrictive at around 25 fics). I am certain that you will publish, and your popularity here will only be the beginning of what you will achieve with your writing.**

**Rhetta, you are a star. Thank you so much for your review. It was such a delight to read (and your profile picture is adorable!)**

**Aqua1999, thank you so much for your wonderful reviews. I am so glad you came out of stalking and left me a comment, as now I can send you all the lovely vibes and happy thoughts. Your reviews were absolutely wonders to receive. They might be the sincerest compliments that have been paid to e – I was floored by them. Thank you.**

**OctoberSkyfall, your reviews have been both hilariously witty and tears-inducing (on my part, at least). I am so honored to have had you as a reviewer in this fic. There have been so many days, at my desk, where I have thought fondly of your (very sexy – frickin’ Misha) profile picture and been so thankful for your taking the time to write such kind words. They’ll stay with me long after this fic is over, I promise you.**

**SlynkieMynx, your review meant the world to me. Even if I can never quite believe the kind comments paid to me, I do draw on them in times of trouble. Your words have meant a lot. Thank you.**

**Holyackles, I’m still so delighted by your review. Because Greg!  He needed some love so desperately! I hope this was the kind of ending you were hoping for with him. I’ve genuinely ended up caring for him so much by the end of this story, and the fact that you cared about him too was so elating. Thank you so much.**

**Maeleene, thank you so much for taking the time to write me. Your doing so genuinely had an impact, far beyond what you probably intended. But I thank you for all of it. You are wonderful! And I’m also so grateful that you took the time (and the initiative – I appreciate how tricky it can be) to offer me some constructive feedback. I genuinely do want to become a better writer, and I appreciate the learning experience that feedback from my readers offers. Thank you so much for that.**

**Typewrittentragedian96, first I must say I haven’t forgotten that I promised to read and review your story! Between the corporate nightmare, and the monstrous size of this story, I haven’t read as much as I would like to lately. I promise though, you are absolutely top of the list. And I’m excited, because I will have so many chapters to read at once! I can positively gorge myself! Thank you so much for your reviews. I am genuinely unable to respond to them properly, because I am so floored by the compliments you have paid me. While I remain in disbelief, I thank you most sincerely.**

**Nixdragoon, I cannot believe you cried in this fic. Now I am crying. Look what has happened.**

**Dinkydog, I am so glad that you found your way here from WinJennster. Your reviews have meant so much. In particular, thank you so much for taking the time to offer constructive feedback on the story. I really do appreciate it. I am here to learn, and welcome any comments you have, now and in the future! Your reviews have been so enthusiastic, I cannot quite believe it. Thank you so much.**

**Gem, your comments to be were so kind. So so kind. And just so sweet. Obviously we have never met, but I think they say a lot about who you are as a person. They are so sincere, and I cried when I read them. I just… you are so sweet. Thank you for being such a wonderful person. And I am so glad to have made you laugh with the thought of Bobby being forced to endure Cas’ steamy descriptions of his time with Dean. You have made me so happy, and I am glad to have done the same** **J**

**Vaelentine, thank you so much for review. I am so utterly grateful for it. You are such a star, and I hope the happy ending I’ve given Cas with Greg makes up for taking Barachiel away from him in 1425** **J**

**Lavinia_kalamack, thank you so much for your review. It truly made my day. I am utterly incredulous at your kindness. Seriously, I appreciate it so much.**

**Sanreir, thank you so much for your review. Thank you so much for taking the chance on this fic. Seriously, just all the thank yous. I am without words otherwise** **J**

**Hannah, you are so sweet and so kind. Your review meant a lot to me, especially because you are a Greg fan! Greg is my darling, and I want the world to coddle him and protect him and shroud him in love and rainbows. So you are now a favourite of mine because of this. This story is not kick ass. But you – YOU- are kick ass. Thank you so much.**

**Ayyyyylmao, I do hope this is the happy ending you were hoping for! I wrote it with you in mind** **J**

**YellowPanda96, I am so glad that this fic has helped you through work too. Why does work suck, right? And your review, in turn, has helped me immensely. In a dingy grey cubicle, it’s easy to forget the good things. But I hang on to your review while I’m there, and it really helps. Thank you so much!**

**Dean_wants_the_casbutt, how did you read for 24 hours straight? How?! I cannot believe this! Please, do take care of yourself! This fic is not worth it, oh my goodness! But, wow, your review. Thank you so much. I’m floored. Genuinely floored. You are a wonder.**

** Fanfiction.net **

**Yuukilover, you were the first review I ever received on this fic. You are the reason that this fic exists. I am utterly serious here. 300,000 + because of you, my friend. Literally, you have changed my life. I don’t know how else to describe it. Thank you thank you thank you xx**

**Vitoria Esewer, thank you so much for your reviews. I’m so glad that I managed to pull you into the delights of AU stories. They make my life exciting and I hope that they do the same for you.**

**TheDeathMaiden, you are too amazing. Honestly, your reviews are so sweet. Just wow. Wow. You are one of the reasons this story exists. Without your early reviews, it never would have come to fruition. I am indebted to you.**

**Totallytwistedwords, I am still so glad you took the time on this story. Your review inspired me to keep going. I wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise. Thank you!**

**Deathb4beauty, thank you so much for your reviews. They have been amongst the kindest I have received. And thank you so much for being so kind as to offer constructive feedback too on the story. I know it can be difficult to do so, and I appreciate that you put it out there, because I learned from it. Thank you so much.**

**MistressInk, thank you so much for your review. It’s one of the ones I really hold close, because I was so scared about writing Cas’ character. He’s such a tricky one, and it only became apparent to me around 8 chapters in that I had gotten myself into a bit of a pickle with writing from his POV! Your compliments kept me going.**

**DemonicAngel363, thank you for your sweet reviews. As one of the first people to tell me they loved Greg, you have a special place in my heart. And your suggestion that I lock Cas and Greg in a bedroom together until they worked it out gave me many hilarious hours of fantasy-chapter writing.**

**LoverDean, thank you so much for your review. You are such a sweetheart. You make me warm and gooey inside. Thank you thank you thank you.**

**Faby, you were so kind to leave me a review. And your compliments were so lovely. Your words made me feel more emotions than this story ever made you feel, I am positive (I burst into tears!)**

**Noben, yours was one of the reviews that really stuck with me, because it’s inspired me to do more. Maybe not as a writer (I’m still like, uuuuuuh, what am I doing?), but I remember reading it and thinking, “you know what, I can do what I put my mind to!” It’s been very inspiring in contemplating a career change. Thank you for that.**

**Ellie, you minx. I am so glad to have met you, my dear. Imagine if you had never wrote me, and we never went to AHBL, and taken that magnificent selfie and been retweeted by Corrin? Girl, I have so much to be thankful for because of you. You’re so bright and wonderful, and I look forward to many more exciting snapchats, and partying it up at AHBL next year. What do you say to “Somebody to Love” by Queen for karaoke next year? I think we (well, mostly you, I could do backing vocals/embarrassing dancing) would rock it.**

**Big Empty, thank you so much for taking the time to read this story! I was absolutely not offended that you weren’t sure about it. It only made me more delighted and more grateful to you that you had taken the time to read it. Your review utterly made my day.**

**TsonSA, thank you so much for your reviews! I am so so grateful. Your encouragement has meant a lot and has really buttressed my confidence. I am so thankful for you.**

**S.K.Y cyrus, your words were so sweet and sincere. Your review made me cry. I am serious. Thank you so much.**

**Sara-hold-the-h, I cried at your reviews. Seriously, they have been so wonderful. I cannot believe the kindnesses you have paid me. I treasure them most earnestly. Truly, as I said above, they have meant such an incredible amount to me. I can’t even begin to describe how much.**

**Shanhons, I am so excited to have drawn you into the fanfic web! Your reviews have been so sweet, and I have been a little overwhelmed with your kindness. Thank you so very very much.**

**Meshelle, YOU are amazing! Not this story. This is just a story. Thank you so so much. It was such a delight to receive your review. It’s so annoying on fanfiction that we can’t send messages to people without accounts, and therefore offer thanks, but I hope you scroll down and read this! Thank you so much!**

**Powerfulweak, thank you so much for your review! I hope this is the happy ending you were hoping for! (If not, I shall just have to write fluffy heaven timestamps of Cas and Dean/Greg in heaven until you are satisfied** **J)**

**Lesipiratecat, thank you so much for your reviews. I hope this is how you hoped things would go, or at least that you liked how they went** **J Thank you so much.**

**CrossroadsLovely, I hope this happy ending made up for what I put you through! It was an honor to receive your review.**


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